Devil May Care
by nefret24
Summary: A Complete AU PrePlateau fic: England, prior to the expedition. Marguerite's after the Roxton jewels, Germans and foppish young fools are after her. Please RR.
1. The Queen Takes a Pawn

Devil May Care

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer: The characters of the Lost World are not mine and are the property of Newline, John Landis et al. I am not making any profit from this story. 

Category: Alternate Universe, general action/suspense, Marguerite-centric, M/R 

Author's Note: Let me say first off- I am completely new to the show and even more new to writing fanfiction for it. So. Any errors or blatant mis-characterizations I apologize for in advance and please point out these to me so that I can get it right. I have read up on my spoilers and ep summaries, so if you haven't seen em all, esp. The Secret, and do not wish to receive any unwanted prior knowledge, turn back now. 

That being said, here is the premise of my quasi-alternate universe. Marguerite funded the expedition but clearly the money came from what remained from Xian's gold that didn't end up with "a foreign power." This story is based on the "what if" Marguerite **didn't** have enough money to fund the expedition and had to return to some of her old ways and haunts to get it- while of course, running into a couple familiar faces. Veronica lovers, I'm sorry, the logistics of the story require her to be MIA- nothing against her character but them's the breaks. 

I'd also like to thank Jane H. and Venetia J. from the Yahoo tlwff list- you guys are the greatest for answering my questions for me! 

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"No cares or woes, Whatever comes later goes, That's how I'll take and I'll give, Devil May Care" ~ Devil May Care, Bob Dorough

"It's a great huge game of chess that's being played all over the world Oh what fun it is! How I wish I was one of them! I wouldn't mind being a Pawn, if I only might join- though of course I should **like** to be a Queen best." ~ Alice, Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

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London, 1922.

Marguerite Krux was pretending to have a fabulous time. Never one to scorn a party or the pleasures afforded by socializing with the affluent, it was her company that set her mood afoul. The young whippersnapper on her arm was chatting with a similarly vapid and pasty individual on the finer points of a cricket match that they had both witnessed the previous afternoon.

Marguerite hated cricket. She couldn't fathom how grown men marveled over a game that consisted purely of whacking around a tiny ball around with a large bat. In fact, if given the opportunity, she would love to take a cricket bat to the behinds of both of the idiots droning on beside her. 

Chess, now that was a game. There was strategy to be conceived, wits to be conquered and tested, and it could be played indoors and while seated with a glass of the finest of French wine. Her kind of game.

The conceited creature on her arm was unfazed and considered her small smiles and occasional nods as enough license to continue in his discussion, giving her leave to scan the luxurious drawing room and its occupants. Marks. Every last one of them a pawn in the chessboard she alone manipulated. The woman laughing in the corner with the tiara sparkling with diamonds, the old hag on the settee with her long necklace of large pearls, the bulbous army officer by the door who twirled a ruby-studded monocle. Sooner or later, they'd all be missing something valuable. 

A shame for them, a boon for me, thought Marguerite simply as she sipped her champagne. And the first one to get it is this young prick, she added to herself with no little satisfaction. It was the least he could do, after dragging her from one old bore to the next. 

She noticed that he was looking at her expectantly, so she faked a laugh, a gentle tinkling noise that seemed to please him very much and laughing back, he returned to his conversation. She returned to her drink and idle scansion of the room. It was so tedious being polite. Probably why she didn't make a habit of it. 

She watched his profile out of the corner of her eye. He wasn't horribly unattractive and he certainly was rich- both attributes which had peaked Marguerite's attention. Vain young men with money to burn that was not their own seemed to be an ever-growing subsection of the British population. She had spotted him in Hyde Park that afternoon, desperately trying to figure out how much to tip the hansom cab driver who had deposited him there. Naturally, she had decided to come to his rescue; what self-respecting girl wouldn't, after seeing the compact wad of bills held out for all the world to see? And who would turn down an invitation to dinner at an expensive restaurant and the chance to relieve the self-same individual of some of his burdens, like his stuffed wallet, his sapphire cufflinks, and his precariously dangling gold chain watch? Not Marguerite Krux, certainly.

Though it is fortunate that he isn't as pasty as his friend, she thought, looking over at that individual, his straw-colored hair greasy from too much hair solution and teeth that protruded unattractively between his lips. At least she didn't have to cozy up to **him** for money; from the scuff marks on his shoes and his frayed shirt sleeve she could tell he was much less fortunate in his benefactors than his friend. She suppressed a grimace as she watched the spittle fly from his mouth as he talked. London society had been so much more refined in her day.

In her day. Though she certainly was considerably older than her companion, she wasn't archaic for heaven's sake! She wondered vaguely if the term "old maid" would apply to her now. Probably. What a hideous term. Women were sensible not to marry- not to have their fortunes taken up by some moronic tyrant they call husband, to be left alone without control over money or decisions. Love was as much as a game as the one she was playing with the idiot by her arm. Though she supposed it was better to be thought as a lonely older woman rather than have her past known. She knew she could still turn heads when she wanted to (hell, she had trapped this young upstart, hadn't she?) and that was enough. Affection only made her sloppy and efficiency was one attribute she liked to think that she cultivated. 

Her companion seemed to be extricating himself from the spittle-spewing man, so she helped him to make their excuses and move away to the other end of the room. 

"Darling," she cooed in a sweet voice, and running a light index finger down his right lapel, "how about a stroll in the garden?"

"W-what?" he asked, a bit startled by her forward suggestion and suitably distracted by her attentions.

"A moonlit walk, perhaps?" she said again, dipping her voice seductively. "The gardens seem so inviting, don't you think?"

He glanced out at the window behind them that overlooked the well-kept grounds of the house and then back to Marguerite, who had taken his hand into hers and was tugging it playfully.

"Oh. **Oh**. Oh, yes. Rather," he said emphatically, nodding his head vigorously, his eyes wide with anticipation.

As Marguerite began to make her way to the door of the drawing room, she smiled to herself. It was almost too easy. 

She led him along the garden path, giggling as if she was ten years younger and considerably less intelligent, him close at her heels, acting in a similar ridiculous manner though not in guile. Glancing behind her, she flashed him a grin while checking their distance from the house. They seemed to be far enough away not to arouse suspicion or have anyone notice their activities.

She slowed her steps and took his hand, allowing him to slow down as well. She looked up at the sky as he regained his breath, idly wondering what was happening to the younger generation that they couldn't handle a little bit of exercise.

"I've had a nice time tonight, Nigel," she said obliquely, and was rewarded as a rosy blush affected his cheeks.

"So have I," he returned. 

This is going to be all uphill, Marguerite thought disgustedly. She certainly couldn't vamp him if he was going to keep acting stubbornly like the schoolboy he is.

She smiled at him warmly as a reply and squeezed his hand lightly. Spying a marble bench not far away, she began to formulate a plan of attack. 

"Maybe we should just sit and watch the stars!" she suggested, gesturing towards the bench. That was certainly the cliché romantic situation for young people, wasn't it? If that's what the blighter expected, that was what he'll get.

"Right. Capital idea, old thing, er, dear heart."

Oh God, thought Marguerite. How thoroughly distasteful to be considered insulted by such a harmless endearment. An idiotic endearment to be sure, but still, she didn't think her age showed that much. She chucked it up to his ever increasing nervousness. She began to suspect that her companion was a bit of a novice when it came to the opposite sex- not a bad advantage for her, but still, it did tend to make everything so much slower and less enjoyable. 

They sat down on the bench and focused their eyes on the sky. No stars were to be seen, of course; between the smog and the city lights it was impossible to see anything but dark sky. She humored him though. "Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful night!"

He nodded eagerly in assent, and kept trying to sneak furtive glances in her direction as if he was contemplating his next move and didn't want her to notice. Too bad she noticed everything. 

_The Queen picks her pawn_

She laughed, to which he added his own nervous chuckle, and she dropped her voice down again and spoke in a stage whisper in close proximity to the side of his face. "Not as beautiful as me, you're supposed to say."

His face suffused with a blush again, he chuckled nervously. "Marguerite. I-"

"Shhh," she said, taking both her hands into hers.

_The Queen moves forward_

"Is there someone else? Is that it?" she asked in a plaintive voice, as she stroked his wrists with her thumbs and holding his eyes with hers. "Because I know we've just met, but I've had such a lovely time perhaps you think me too forward?" She dropped his hands and turned from him, hoping she had sounded suitably pathetic with that last statement. Her hands in her lap, she secretly stowed his cufflinks into a hidden pocket in her skirt. Too easy. Now for the rest

His hand clumsily patted her shoulder and she half-turned to face him, fixing a slightly teary-eyed expression on her face. 

"Marguerite- dash it all, there is no one else. Here, I say" he began, a panicked expression creeping into his face. Apparently, he must be more frightened of weeping females than vamping ones, Marguerite thought. And his speech patterns got ever so much more inarticulate. He probably can't even dress himself without his valet! 

His hand was searching for a handkerchief and was about to enter his inside jacket pocket when she stayed it, keeping it pressed against his chest with her own.

"You mean it?" she asked incredulously. What was incredulous was that he was buying this act hook, line and sinker, she chuckled to herself.

_The Queen attacks_

"What? Oh yes, of course, dearest–"

"Darling!" she bleated and kissed him full on the lips. It was short-lived, as it took the poor boy by surprise but even so, he didn't know what to do with it. What a shame, Marguerite thought disappointedly. The British education system was really lacking these days.

"Oh- may I- oh-" Nigel managed before he put his arms on both her shoulders in a awkward embrace and kissed her back, still ineptly but this time of longer duration. Marguerite desperately tried not to groan with protest. Was she really reduced to this? Those cufflinks had damn well better be 24 karat gold if she was going to suffer such disgusting embraces. 

Marguerite's hands were placed up against his chest and were fully occupied.

__

The Queen takes the pawn.

Suddenly, she broke off the kiss and affixed a wild, wide eyed stare on the shubbery. "Oh my goodness! Is someone there?"

Nigel, shocked and turning puce again, began to stutter horribly. "D-d-did you s-s-see s-someone?"

Marguerite pointed a shaking finger to the yonder bushes. "I heard something from over that way- oh! You don't think we've been discovered?"

Nigel was clearly ready to wet his pants and quickly made the suggestion that they go back into the house. A British gentlemen could not be caught in embraces with an older lady after less than a day of acquaintance without some kind of nasty rumor- a rumor which might reach back to those moneyed relatives and have certain consequences on one's spending money.

Marguerite permitted a small smile to creep over her face as she let him lead her away. His wallet and his pocket watch had joined his cufflink in her skirt, and darling Nigel was too busy looking over his shoulder for those mysterious individuals who might have seen his clumsy performance to notice they were missing.

Their goodbyes were hurried and somewhat distant, but Nigel did his gentlemanly duty of escorting her to a hansom cab. He was still considerably shook up- probably never been kissed before, thought Marguerite ruefully- and didn't even mention the fare. 

Just as well, she snickered to herself. I have all his money. 

So she ordered the cab to take her to her rooms at the Ritz and tipped the driver only adequately, to increase her take of the night. Not a bad day's work, really. 

As soon as she entered her room, she drew all the curtains closed and reached for the sherry on the portmanteau. After pouring herself a generous glass and taking a hearty swig, she extracted a small black case out from underneath her mattress. Moving over to the table, she extracted her magnifying glasses and jeweler's tools.

She stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning examining the worth of the watch and the links. The links were indeed 24 karat and should sell well, but the watch was only a cheap gilded imitation that wouldn't fetch as much as she had hoped for. Still, she had a sizable amount of cash money now on hand, in a nice leather case to boot. And she was one step further to getting exactly what she wanted.

She slept like a purring cat until one in the afternoon.


	2. Boredom and Ambition

Devil May Care, Part 2/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see part 1.

Author's Note: I know I said it was Marguerite-centric but I couldn't help myself. That and I need to ground my plot somewhere. She'll be back in the next installment, promise. I haven't seen the Elixir yet- grr- so if my characterization of Jesse is all off, that's why. Working with what I have, folks. I'm also sorry if this is somewhat lacking in fun- that comes with the next installment, at which I am hard at work already. M meets R lots of fun. BTW, reviews do significantly speed up the writing process **grins**

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who've posted advice and reviewed! You are wonderful, you are saintly, and I am utterly grateful. 

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"You've never been poor. You don't know what ambition is." ~ An Ideal Husband, Oscar Wilde

"Money, money, money! I think about money morning, noon and night! I dare say it's mercenary of me, but there it is!" ~ The Secret Adversary, Agatha Christie

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One week later– The Roxton Townhouse, London

Lady Beatrice Roxton was sitting at her writing table in the East Parlor when her son walked in. 

"Good morning, Mother," he said, helping himself to some biscuits sitting on a nearby table.

"It's the afternoon, John," she replied without looking up from her writings.

"Thought it was a bit too early for callers," he said, giving one of the biscuits a quizzical stare before popping it into his mouth.

"You know, dearest, if you didn't keep the hours you do"

"I would be apprised of these things, yes, yes, I know. Who was it?" he said, with a sigh, dropping down onto the couch.

"Lady Farcourt."

"Ah, one of the old teetotalers. What the devil did she want at such an hour?"

"Language, John," she replied automatically. She had tried all his life to correct John's colloquialisms and especially his use of vulgar language but her heart wasn't in it anymore. It was practically a reflex anyhow, by this point. She took off her half glasses and laid them beside her pen and turned to face her son.

"You know the woman really is quite senile. She thought that she had had tea here yesterday and left behind a string of pearls."

"She sounds potty to me. Why should she leave a string of pearls behind?" John remarked, rolling his eyes. How he hated his mother's friends. They hadn't a brain between them.

"It's not only that- she never **had** tea here yesterday. She hasn't come over for tea in a week! It's all very odd."

"Hmfph," Roxton replied through a mouth full of biscuits.

"John- swallow before you speak. Oh yes, and not only that, but it seems she's absolutely furious with that silly nephew of hers"

"Not Wainwright again?"

"Yes. It seems that that young idiot Nigel withdrew his entire monthly allowance the other day only to lose it all- he knows not where. Took him the whole week to finally confess that he'd misplaced it, and begged the poor woman for more money."

"It runs in the family," Roxton said with a smirk.

"Oh stop," Lady Roxton replied, lightly swatting him on the arm. But even she was forced to smile. It was not a family known for its intellectual capacity. "Apparently he wants to buy one of those motorcars that keep roaring through the streets."

"What would **he** do with a motorcar? Probably run some poor chap over."

"Well, I certainly can't see why he should want one. They're terribly expensive and Lady Farcourt will simply not spend the extra money, especially when he can't hold onto what he's given."

"Sensible. But you know, Mother, those motorcars aren't such a bad idea. I was thinking about getting one myself-"

"Oh no, you don't, John Roxton! I will not have you speeding around the countryside in one of those confounded contraptions!"

"Language, Mother," he said with a grin. He stood up and brushed off the biscuit crumbs from his trousers. "Well, I'm off," he said, after planting a kiss on his mother's cheek.

"Be sure and come home early tonight, dear," she called out as she turned back to her writing. "The party's tonight, you know."

Roxton stopped dead in his tracks, his hand gripping the doorknob fiercely. "I thought it wasn't until next Tuesday!"

"It **is** next Tuesday, John," she replied wearily. 

"Fine," he replied grumpily and left the room. He hated his mother's parties but with both his father and older brother dead, the title of the Roxtons must be upheld and he'd need to put in an appearance. He would give anything to turn back the clock to the old days, when he never had to attend the stupid things and didn't have to deal with his mother's friends and their insinuations that he carry on the Roxton line. Dealing with debutantes wasn't his style. 

Okay, well, once in a while, he could deal with a little bit of female companionship, he thought, smirking. The pretty ones were at least amusing for a little while. But it always ended the same way– whether they wanted his money or considered him their soulmate– they bored him and he had shown them the door. Or he had done his damnedest to get them to throw him out. He supposed that he ought to feel guilty at treating them in such a manner but he never did. 

And now another damn party. How he hated London! At least in Avebury, he could spend his days outside hunting fowl or fox. In the blasted city all he could do to amuse himself was drink and where was the adventure in that? He almost missed the war. It made life more exciting, more purposeful than discussing the weather with vapid, acquiescent females. He never knew what to bloody say to them anyhow. It's not like he could talk about anything he cared about- hunting or politics or hunting. Oh well. He'd come for a few minutes and sneak away before his mother could haul him in

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George Challenger's Apartments, London, the Same Day

Jesse Challenger watched as her nephew paced the sitting room. She had tried several times over to make him sit still already, and even more times telling him to extract his fingers from his mouth so that she could understand him. 

"Chewing off your fingernails is not going to help, you know," she pointed out for what seemed like the tenth time.

He paused mid-bite and dropped his hand to his side. "When will he be coming up?" he asked, before pacing again.

"Soon. You know how he is. He won't come up until he's ready," she said with a sigh. That was her husband- stubborn as a mule and just as much a workhorse. 

"But, I say, it's been almost an hour," her nephew whined.

"St. John, please. Sit down before you fall down and just wait him out," she said sternly, fixing him a glare.

He lowered himself gingerly into an armchair and after folding his arms, affixed such an expression on his face as to convey a child with the sulks. His frown had pulled back his lips from those overly long front teeth of his and his hair fell over his brow in such a way that Jesse was almost moved to pity him. Only almost.

"You know it's been worse ever since he found Maplewhite. He's convinced that that place, that plateau, actually exists! Dinosaurs, can you believe it?" she laughed, and shook her head, her blond coif glinting in the afternoon sunlight that filled the room. "And if he isn't down there calculating, he's up here sulking," she said pointedly.

"It may not be as absurd as you suppose, old thing."

"Well, I think that where ever Maplewhite was, even if it isn't on any map we know of, there certainly wasn't dinosaurs there."

"But that's just your opinion, my dear," said George Challenger, entering the room, and adjusting his shirt cuffs, which had been rolled up for working. He gave her a peck on the cheek and then added, "But I have scientific proof that says otherwise." She winced at his patronizing tone and shifted on the sofa as he sat down next to her.

"The photographs, d'ya mean?" St. John said eagerly. At this comment, Challenger deigned to notice his existence and Jesse muffled a snort of derision. As if photographs couldn't be tampered with, her look conveyed. 

"Yes. St. John, how have you been?"

"As well as can be expected, sir."

Challenger, not being acquainted with his nephew's situation in life, mostly because he had better things to concentrate on, glossed over his statement. "Taken an interest in my studies, have you?" he pressed, eager as always to discuss his findings with an open ear.

"Oh yes, though I know that they are widely disputed-"

At this, Challenger harumphed.

"-especially by your colleague Dr. Summerlee"

"That old hack! He doesn't know the first thing about true scientific methodology!" Challenger began, warming up for a rant against his recent chief rival, but Jesse sent him a warning glare, as well as a restraining hand on his arm. She was inclined to agree with her husband's rival, but she said nothing, more in favor of keeping the peace than on having her say, very unlike her husband's temperament.

St. John, visibly more nervous, babbled on, as was his habit. "I think you should mount an expedition there," he ended finally.

"An expedition. This is what I have been saying all along!" Challenger exclaimed triumphantly. He turned to Jesse, "You know, he really is quite- you know, St. John, you really are quite a bright individual," he said, rambling now and patting St. John on the knee in such a hearty manner that it made his nephew cringe.

Jesse made a face. If it wasn't for her husband's blinding scientific zeal, he would realize that St. John was very far from bright. She cleared her throat and decided to lend some logic to the conversation. "Except for the fact that you haven't the funding."

"It's true," Challenger replied sulkily and sunk back into his chair. "If they could only see the potential of such a voyage! Narrow-minded fools, all of them! Especially Summerlee!" he added darkly.

"Well, Uncle, what about if you could get the money? If this thingummy–"

"Plateau," Challenger interjected harshly.

"Right- this whatchamacallit really exists, wouldn't it end up, you know, paying for itself anyway? Not to mention and then some, what?" 

"It's not about the money, boy! This is most likely one of the greatest discoveries in the history of mankind! There is no monetary value large enough to encompass **that**."

"Erm, yes. Exactly!" St. John exclaimed, not sure what he was agreeing with but hoping it would further ingratiate him with his uncle.

Befuddled with his nephew's logic, of which there was none, Challenger gave up and with a muttered oath, announced his intention to return to his lab for further study. 

As he left, Jesse turned on her nephew. "What do you think you are doing, encouraging him? To what purpose?"

"Dear aunt, imagine this: if somehow he received the appropriate funding and found the place, think of the rewards it could return! Uncle George would be famous and you would be rich!"

"And conversely, so would you. Yes, I understand now." She eyed her nephew suspiciously. They came from a highly decorated noble family but unfortunately, the only thing that remained noble was their name. The family estate had dwindled down until there was almost nothing left. St. John as heir, was to receive practically nothing and had been frustrated all his life by moving in a social circle that acknowledged his birth but not his current quasi-poverty. To make matters worse, he was intent on marrying a member of the working class! Some girl from a tea-shop! She had never met her, but odds were, the girl was as silly as he was. And that meant that she most likely supposed he still had money to burn. 

"Well, how do you propose on getting your riches, then? No one will fund him. He's already petitioned the Zoological Society and been rejected three times. I, more than anyone, realize that he is devoted to scientific discovery but this is too much! Dinosaurs and mythic lands," she said disdainfully. "It is never something small, like a cure for the sniffles. It is always a panacea," she said wearily.

St. John's face was vacant. Jesse mentally reminded herself that big words did tend to confuse the lad. 

He seemed to shrug his confusion off and continued on his train of thought. "I think we ought to try private means. I'm going to a dinner party tonight at the Roxtons, you know. I mean to ask Lord Roxton if he'll consider lending some of his considerable fortune to science. Good idea, eh?" St. John asked confidently.

"Wipe your chin," Jesse replied, which was indeed, a bit damp from the spittle that had been created by his last statement. "It's so nice to see you care so much about your uncle that you would have this all planned out," she said sarcastically. The sarcasm was lost on St. John, of course, and he just nodded his head enthusiastically. "And why should he give you the money?"

"Why not? What better use has he for it?"

"If I were as rich as Lord Roxton, I'm sure I could find use for it." And I sure as hell wouldn't listen to a simple-minded idiot like St. John, she added silently. The lad had a decent idea, though; she ought to mention to George in the future.

"Well, I must at least try. Mabel is still pressing for nuptials in June."

"Not without my consent, she won't," said Jesse forcefully. "You have neither the means nor the sense to get married."

"Aw, Aunt Jesse" he whined.

"St. John," she raised her finger warningly. She would not tolerate a temper tantrum. It was bad enough when George didn't get his way.

"But listen here, old thing, dear aunt, would you consent, if uncle got the money?" he asked tenatively.

"If the funding became available, you could marry the tea girl, the cook or the bloody maid!" she said, rising, not sure she could reign in her temper for much longer. With St. John, it was always a matter of patience and hers had worn thin. "But only, if the funding becameavailable." With that she left him alone in the room, satisfied that the money would never find its way into St. John's hands. 

TBC 


	3. Lady Beatrice's Party

Devil May Care Part 3/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 & 2. As a refresher, don't own anybody but the young whippersnappers- not sure I should be proud of that, but it's true.

And yet More Author's Notes: Wow. You guys really know how to cheer a gal up. Reviews are like ambrosia for the soul. Lovely, really. Thank you all again for the encouragement. KEEP IT UP!! 

Roxton and Marguerite meet! How exciting! I hope against hope that I didn't screw it up. In my defense, I'd like to point out that I haven't seen "The Journey Begins" but I have been told that M fires a rifle at R during that momentous first meeting (at least, in one version of that ep she does) and well, you'll see. I refuse to say anymore until you read this chapter. 

Oh yeah, and I don't know anything about guns. Whatever model the Webleys (those are Roxton's guns, right?) are, that's what they are. I do have some shortcomings.

Can I just say OMG for Tapestry! So bloody marvelous! And perfect catty, mysterious, mischievous Marguerite! Just what I needed to keep on going. If you haven't seen it, you should- it'll knock your block off. I've been giggling for about an hour straight now. CalGal, for your wonderful recap, this chapter's for you.

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"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." ~ Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

"Deceit deceiveth and shall be deceived. A false pedigree is always worse than none at all." ~ The Game of Kings, Dorothy Dunnett

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The Roxton Townhouse, London: Later the Same Day

Marguerite was dressed in red, her favorite color. Well, next to gold, it was her favorite color. The outfit had caused more than one gentlemen's eye to turn her way and she was glad for it. Tonight was a night for making new friends and finding new marks. The painfully stupid Wainwright and his dear auntie had been both appropriately fleeced and as expected, no one suspected a thing. They were simply too silly to ever be victims of theft; everyone assumed it was their own fault. And in a way, it was- Marguerite had marked them precisely for that reason- that it would be seen as their own stupidity at work. And she always loved it when a plan pulled through.

If that wasn't enough a good reason to be in fine spirits, she finally pawned off the pearls for a suitably nice amount of money that afternoon. Soon, perhaps even in a matter of weeks, she would finally have enough to suit her purpose. Yes, it was nice when things went according to plan.

She had paid her pleasantries to the lady of the house, a genial sort of woman who seemed to possess some degree of sense and was, of course, friends with Lady Farcourt. That made her next assault dicey, but not impossible. The problem of stealing from the elite of society was the fact that it remained a small circle. It was really of little consequence. Marguerite shouldn't have felt guilty anyway. It wasn't really stealing, just the redistribution of wealth, in a sense. Stupid people really shouldn't be allowed to have all that money. 

In that sense, the night did have one slight damper on it. Lady Roxton was not an idiot. It would take a great deal of care to successfully cloak this theft and if anyone was up to the challenge, it was Marguerite.

The Roxton wealth and all its fine feathers was certainly coveted– and not just by her. Lady Roxton was a widow, and many older gentlemen, mostly retired military officers and aging dandies, seemed to be taking the opportunity to ply her with favors. However, they spent the majority of their time being ignored by the mistress of the house; she was too smart for their games and too tired to play them anymore so they were forced to find partners elsewhere.

For this reason, Marguerite found herself trapped in a conversation with a former officer of the Realm blather on about his time in India. To be fair, she was only half-listening and making nasty comments that the blighter couldn't hear because he was practically stone-deaf. The man was so rotund it was amazing he fit through the door, and she was forced to drink copiously as he exclaimed his strenuous and very physical acts of heroism abroad– otherwise, she should have laughed aloud. Not just laughed, guffawed. It was absurd. She could much less see him mount a carriage than a camel and was going to tell him so, when she noticed a new face walk in the door. 

He was ruggedly handsome, and for all appearances, seemed to live an active lifestyle, judging by the way he filled out his clothes. Fancy dress didn't suit him, thought Marguerite, her eye lingering on his collar, a bit too tight, where his hair, a bit too long, curled ever so slightly over the edges. Still, there was something. 

He wasn't slick, that was it. There was bluntness in his manner, a sort of ease that lacked the vain pretensions of Nigel and his set. In fact, it was an almost conceited complacency and confidence of manner that marked his stride as he made his way to the couch where the hostess sat. From the looks of him, she doubted he would give a fig about cricket, and so the stranger's evaluation marks went up several points. 

He approached Lady Roxton and bent down and gave her a peck on the cheek. Hmm must be a relative? Seems too old and sensible to be a nephew, but then you never can tell. She seemed to recall something about the Lady having sons- hadn't one died mysteriously?

The debutantes to her right were tossed into a flurry by his appearance and kept pinching their cheeks and smoothing out their gowns. Must be a son, Marguerite concluded. There's money to be had in their desperation. Eavesdropping on the idiotic girls' conversation, she discovered she was right.

"Ohmygoodness! Is he coming this way?"

"Do you think he sees me?"

"Why should Lord John Roxton bat an eyelash at you?"

"Well, he's certainly not going to look at you- in that outfit!"

"It's not nearly as horrible as yours!"

"Well, at least it's not from last season!"

Marguerite ignored the ensuing whispered catfight and contemplated the newcomer's face again, abstractly nodding to her companion who didn't need much encouragement to continue listening to the sound of his own voice. 

He was standing dutifully behind his mother's chair with a solemn expression on his face, as if he was fighting back an urge to grimace. Well, surrounded by those tabbies and invalids she calls friends, only to be attacked by those absurd young things, well, it was no wonder. 

Just then, almost as if he had sensed he was being studied, he glanced to the other side of the room and met her gaze. Their eyes locked and neither made any move to break the connection. If he thinks he can intimidate me, he's got another thing coming, mused Marguerite, tilting up an eyebrow slightly, never looking away. He continued to stare at her– probably waiting for me to blush, she thought. Well, newsflash, Lord John Roxton, I am not a novice and you are out of your league.

The girls to her left were entering a new state of hysteria, most likely brought on by the false assumption that he was looking intently at them. In a rush, they leapt forward in his direction, obscuring their direct viewpoints. Taking advantage of the situation, Marguerite excused herself from the bulbous bore and set off to another section of the room in search of answers to some recently formed questions. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roxton had just managed to escape the clutches of three doting females and was treating himself to his second drink of the night, wishing that the champagne he was polishing off greedily was something ten times as strong. 

He had, of course, been right. The old biddies were at it again, desperate to see him linked with one of their daughters, granddaughters, nieces, or any female in relation to them. It was almost as if he didn't need to be present at all; they would get into arguments about this one's embroidery skills or that one's temperament– it wasn't like the decision should be his own. 

What he hadn't counted on was that woman. His innate hunter's instinct had alerted him to her unabashed stare and she didn't flinch or blush as the other young idiots did. She wasn't that young, but young enough, he could tell– her fair skin was unblemished and for the most part unpainted, with the exception of her blood red lips. Eyes like little steel balls. He wondered why she was there. She seemed so different, so out of place, in his mother's drawing room. She seemed wholly exotic, like a breath of fresh air. Or fresh lust, he amended wickedly. 

Maybe it was her outfit, he mused. He was never one to notice or care about female fashion but the color of her dress could hardly be overlooked. The most astonishing shade of crimson– no debutante would ever think of wearing that. He had lost sight of her when the Misses Weldon and Simpson descended on him in a flurry of lace and borderline faintness.

He scanned the room intently over the rim of his champagne glass and eventually he saw her, by the large windows– talking to Nigel Wainwright, of all people!

He was about to balk aloud when he heard a slight cough to his right. It was Wainwright's friend- oh hell, thought John, what was the blighter's name? Something that began with an s? Spittington- no that wasn't it, though certainly appropriate

"Lord Roxton. I was wondering if I might interest you with a business proposition. My name is" the man began.

Smythe! That was it! "Foggington-Smythe, right?" he said, barely shaking his extended hand.

"Oh, you remember me! St. John Foggington-Smythe, at your service. It's remarkable that you remember me! That's quite a coincidence because-" Smythe babbled, apparently delighted.

"Er, yes, friend of Wainwright's, aren't you?" Roxton drawled offensively, cutting him off in mid-piffle.

"Yes, again! You have certainly the most astonishing memory, Lord Roxton. Now about that business proposition"

"Who is that woman talking to Wainwright?" he interrupted boldly, sensing that was the only way to deal with the waterworks motormouth. 

"Who?" Roxton pointed at the two in conversation across the room. "Oh, her. That's Miss Marguerite Krux. Nigel met her last week sometime in Hyde Park. Lovely woman. Striking eyes and all that, what?"

"Hmm yes. Is she here with him?" he asked abstractedly, intent on watching the couple talk. Nigel himself was blushing so that his ear had turned completely red. What the devil was she saying to him?

"Oh no, she came with Mrs. Caruthers and her party, I think. Nigel hasn't seen her but once since they met. Quite taken in. He always had all the luck," St. John sniffed. "Heiress, don'cha know. He wouldn't be the first to want to make an acquaintance," Smythe said, with a nudge to Roxton's shoulder.

Nigel and her? That had to be a mistake. There was no way in heaven or earth that a woman like that could fall for an idiot like Wainwright, Roxton thought furiously. But then, he reasoned, he had never met her. I know nothing about this woman and already I'm making snap judgements. She could be as mad as the rest of them. 

"But of course, there is my business proposition" 

"Later," said Roxton, moving away and towards the window.

"Yes. I'll talk to you about it later, shall I? Yes. That sounds best. I'll just talk to you about it then," St. John said to no one in particular.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite had made almost a complete circuit of the room. Lord Roxton's entrance, luckily, was a topic of many a conversation and subsequently, Marguerite could ask her questions with the cover of naiveté.

"Lord John Roxton is one of the most insufferable men imaginable," Lady Dowling sniffed. "His manners are atrocious!"

"To say that he has some at all!" Mrs. Peters tittered. "All those expeditions have turned him into a savage!"

"Expeditions?" Marguerite asked, curious. 

"Oh yes, dear, I keep forgetting you've been on the continent all this time," Lady Dowling conceded. "Lord Roxton is a hunter."

"The Great White Hunter," Mrs. Peters drawled offensively. 

At this remark, Mrs. Caruthers turned to their little discussion. "Oh Mary, don't say it like that! He's not a bad boy, you know. Beatrice has done her best."

"I meant no offense to her. She has done what she can, but really," Mrs. Peters continued huffily, "he treated my niece something awful. What can you expect, after he spends his days in the wild with the animals?"

"I take it he is no gentleman?" Marguerite ventured, recalling his long hair and tight collar. The athleticism required to become a hunter of his caliber was definitely apparent. Unbidden, a conjured vision of him without his shirt or jacket, baring sweat soaked muscles in the hot sun, rose in her mind. A quick mental shake removed it. Get a hold of yourself, girl, she told herself disgustedly. He's just a man like any other.

"Oh, he can be perfectly gentlemanly," said Mrs. Caruthers with conviction. "When he wants to," she added hastily.

It was at this point that Nigel had wangled her away from the throng for a more private discussion near the windows. She had been avoiding him with precision and cursed herself for not paying more attention to the room at large. 

The poor thing was utterly taken in. He admired her prudence in keeping her distance but felt that now he could more openly express his feelings and vice versa.

In other words, his aunt has seen me and approved of my fictitious bank account, she mused maliciously. Oh, what would she think if she knew I was the one who had taken her pearls?

He was looking at her with his baby-blue child's eyes and Marguerite felt the urge to vomit. She couldn't believe someone could be that naïve, that puerile and that disgustingly sentimental all at once. Better to dash his dreams quickly- it'll be all over before he knows what hit him.

"Nigel, really! Is that a proposal?" 

His pernicious blush was making an appearance again. It was getting so that she could predict them. The speech impediment that had affected him in the garden seemed to be coming on so he merely nodded his head vigorously.

"I'm sorry, but I cannot accept it," she said, archly. He would hate her after this but she had burned so many bridges in her lifetime that she had become used to the scorn of others.

"But-but-but the **garden**" Nigel stumbled for words. 

Marguerite almost pulled back in horror when she saw tears welling up in the lad's eyes. Oh good grief. Two kisses and he had probably mapped out our entire life together. She hadn't counted on it being that bad. Might as well concede something, he would need a melodramatic reason, of course all these young idiots thrived on melodrama.

"Nigel, I can't accept you. It's just that" she wracked her brain for some wild excuse from a bad novel, "I have six months left to live," she finished weakly, lowering her eyes, hoping to look suitably pathetic.

Nigel stood there like a statue. At least the tears were gone. It seemed as if he were trying to put on a brave front now. And they say chivalry is dead, thought Marguerite wryly as she raised her eyes and spoke again in a hushed whisper. "That is why I have been on the continent. The doctors say they can help but it is hopeless. It would do you good to find someone else-" she broke off, turning from him as if she were fighting back tears. She pinched her nose harshly with her nailtips, willing the tears to build up convincingly.

"I had no idea, I am so sorry," Nigel said and was about to clumsily pat her shoulder when she flinched away. 

"No, Nigel. Forget me," and in a suitable theatrical manner, quickly exited the room, leaving him standing there forlornly. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite made her way out onto the balcony, the cool night air refreshing after the close heat of the drawing room. She moved up to the railing and gazed up at the sky, still devoid of stars. She chuckled beside herself. Six months to live. And he believed it! 

I should be disgusted with myself, she thought. Here I am, one of the most accomplished liars on the continent, who have talked my way out of more perilous situations than a simple engagement, and I almost choke with a doting young idiot! I must be getting soft in my old age.

As the cool breeze wafted in her face, making her hair dance around her face, she felt absurdly pleased with herself. She reached in her purse for her cigarette case. It was molded in gold and had formerly been possessed by a Duke (or was he an Earl?) whom she had met crossing the Channel. It was too pretty to pawn and she had kept it. She extracted a thin cigarette and in the reflection of the case top, caught sight of a man standing at the balcony doors.

Ah, so you've found me. Well, let's see what you're made of Lord John Roxton, she thought, readying for battle. He too seemed to be determining a method of attack. Let me make it easy for you, shall I?

"Cigarette?" she asked simply, extending the case but not turning her back. She heard him approach and felt the warmth of his body as he drew near. Callous fingers withdrew a single cigarette from the case and he then stood next to her by the rail. She plucked the cigarette from his fingers and placed it in her mouth with her own. Delighted to see his eyes slightly widen at that, she extracted her lighter and lit them both, then removed one for him. 

Accepting it with a raised eyebrow, his eyes lingered on her lips and then focused on the tip of the cigarette. He raised it to his lips and emulated her example of taking slow, indifferent drags of smoke. He didn't look at her, but out at the street below. His idea of playing it cool, no doubt.

Marguerite could have purred with pleasure. He was getting wound up, she could tell. She knew that no matter whom he had talked to, she assuredly knew more about him than he did of her. And it riled him. He also didn't seem to like being spotted first either. Most likely a blow to his stalking instincts or some other rubbish. A half-smile played on her lips, betraying her pleasure at winning the first round.

Shifting, she tilted her head up to look at him. Never one for stalling unnecessarily, she began. "You didn't say thank you."

He almost seemed startled by her remark (not expecting **that**, I'd wager, thought Marguerite, recalling her theatrics on the night sky not a week ago), but his eyes danced. "Didn't I? Forgive me, Miss Krux," he said with just a twinge of sarcasm and half a smile on his face. 

Ah, yes. The other shoe has dropped. Ready to play with me now, Lord Roxton? She flashed him a grin then took another slow drag, and looked out over the side. "I'll consider it, Lord Roxton."

A rakish smile graced his features and Marguerite suddenly understood the full extent of the hysteria of the debutantes. He was gorgeous! In a deliciously unsuitable way. "If I mind my manners?"

"Manners?" she repeated questioningly. "I wasn't aware that you possessed any," she added with a wicked smile.

"The ladies have been gossiping again, I see," he replied, a wry smile crossing his face. "I'm sure Nigel illuminated my better qualities?"

Oh aren't we trying to be clever? Was that statement intended to acquaint me with the fact that you have eyes in your head? "Better qualities?" she grinned again.

A scowl briefly passed on his features; she had to give him credit- he recovered quickly enough that had she been less experienced an adversary she wouldn't have caught it. Temper, temper

"Lacking in those as well?" he said, an edge to his voice. 

"Well, I admit, you must have some"

"A noble concession," he scoffed.

"since you **do** have all those adolescent girls flinging themselves at your feet," she finished impertinently.

His eyes flared with anger. Oooh, I've hit a tender spot, thought Marguerite maliciously, taking another drag of her cigarette.

"You're a fine one to talk, with young Nigel wrapped around your finger."

"And which finger might that be?"

"Fortune hunter, are you?" he said, changing tack. He seemed desperate to get a handle on her, to extract the information he couldn't learn from anyone else. Oh, what an amateur. 

"I like fortunes but hunting is your area of expertise, so I'm told," she quipped.

He stubbed out his cigarette forcefully on the railing. "Planning to steal away with the lad's inheritance?"

"Why should I bother with him when yours is so much greater?"

That shocked him as she had planned it would. After gaping for a moment, he managed, "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Out to get my inheritance?"

"If you insist," she said with a crooked smile, contemplating what was left of her cigarette before extinguishing it. "Would you like to give me the grand tour?"

"Want to see the house you're buying into?" he said, the rakish grin making a comeback. Ah, good, he's realized it's all just piffle. And I'll finally get a handle on where those valuables are. It was so nice when things came to fruition.

"After you, my lady," he said dramatically, holding the balcony door open for her as she swept past him regally.

As they re-entered the drawing room, there were of course, some staring eyes. Marguerite noticed Nigel talking to his spitting friend again, but he stopped long enough to shoot her an anxious glance. Probably thinks the night air has weakened my constitution, she grimaced inwardly. Roxton seemed anxious to make it to the drawing room door without one of the aforementioned adolescents attacking him, forcing Marguerite's lips to quiver with suppressed mirth.

After glancing around some unimportant rooms- the dining hall, the East and West parlors– they made their way into the library. Marguerite could tell as soon as she entered the mahogany-furnished room that this was Roxton's sanctuary. There was a lion's head on the wall and next to it, a large glass case of guns, clips, and swords. 

The mantelpiece was crowded with photographs. Roxton with his kills, Roxton with his mother, Roxton with a slightly older young man- the dead brother?- Roxton in a military uniform. 

"Very nice," she said, eyeing the lion's growling head on the wall warily. Yes, his mother definitely needed to redecorate in here.

He laughed as he saw her grimace. He moved over to the glass case and extracted an ivory handled pistol from it. "This pistol and I have been through a lot together. Took that beast down in seconds flat," he said proudly, and twirled the gun in his hand.

"A Webley ---?" Marguerite stated, raising an eyebrow.

Shocked him again. He extended the ivory handle towards her with a look of awe and she took the gun, measuring its weight in her hand, admiring the delicateness of the carved ivory. It was loaded.

"You be careful don't know how to use that thing, do you?" he said, caution and amusement mingling in his tone.

"Oh, I'm sure it's easy to figure out," she said playfully, pointing the gun at him. 

He gulped audibly. "Maybe you should just give it back to me" he began, and was inching toward her, hands raised in a defensive manner. 

An impish grin slowly spread on her face. Oooh, this was gonna be fun. "Don't think a woman can handle firearms?"

"A dangerous pursuit for anyone," he added hastily.

"Dangerous for whom?" she asked in the same playful manner, very expertly lining up her target and squinting expertly down the barrel of the gun.

"Marguerite, please"

She fired the gun. He swore and ducked, hands covering his head as he heard the sound of shattering glass.

"Not a bad little gun," she commented briefly and set it down on the table. 

His eyes blazing with fury, he swept it up and strode towards her, towering over her slight frame with his proximity. "Are you out of your mind! What possessed you to do such a thing! You could have killed me!"

"Just like all my husbands," she said mysteriously and with a wink, swung around towards the library doors. As she reached them, she turned around and added, "Lest I forget **my** manners- good evening, Lord Roxton." With another mischievous grin, she left the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roxton sat down at the library's mahogany table, visibly shaken. A mystery woman, with a thirst for fortune, a wicked tongue and the audacity to fire a gun at her host indoors, was more than just cause for a hearty drink. He got up and went to the sideboard. Finding the whiskey, he poured himself a full glass, ignoring the water bottle. Full strength, that's what he needed. His hands still shook a little.

He was still amazed she hadn't hit him. He could have a hole in a portion of his anatomy right now if it weren't for blind luck! Though, he mused, she did hit something. I remember hearing glass shatter. What the devil did she break?

Angrily, he began to look around the room. It wasn't the case with the guns; that had been to his left. What had been behind him?

The fireplace.

He moved over to the mantel and sure enough, she had hit one of the pictures. The only one with Roxton alone, the portrait his mother had taken of him when he had enlisted for WWI, and had felt rather dashing in his new military uniform, was missing most of its glass. 

Then Roxton swore again. The audacity of that minx! She was playing with me the entire time! He threw down the picture on the Persian carpet and stalked off, hoping to catch that infernal woman before she left. She didn't know whom she was messing with.

The picture fell on the floor right side up, so that when the butler came in later to tidy up, he was confused as to why a portrait of the master should have a bullet lodged in its silver frame- particularly as the bullet had ripped right through the photograph- hitting him squarely between his eyes. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite, who had well known what she was aiming at in the library, knew that Roxton soon would figure it out too. Not wanting a confrontation, she said her farewells quickly thereafter.

As she made her way through the foyer, she noticed Nigel's cricket friend sitting at the base of the stairs, gripping his neck. He swayed to a standing position and then, as if he were about to swoon like a female with the vapors, he sat down quickly again. What the devil happened to him? she wondered idly. She watched as a servant brought him some ice for his head while she waited for her cab to arrive. He probably fell down the stairs, she thought nastily. The bloody twit.

Just as her cab arrived, she was unfortunate enough to have Nigel come darting out of the house.

"Persevere, darling," he said as he helped her with the most officious care into her seat. "Your image is enshrined in my heart and there is light at the end of the tunnel! Do not worry, my love!" he said, closing the cab doors with a flourish. 

Marguerite was thankful for the darkness as she grimaced as he continued reciting trite prose. Oh good Gad. This is really too much.

"Driver! What are you waiting for!" she said, and thumped the wall of the coach loudly and was quickly acknowledged, the coach jerking to life in the direction of the Ritz.

As she was driven home, she thought back to the events of the evening. All in all, not bad for a first reconnaissance. Lady Beatrice certainly could be a profitable mark and her son had good entertainment value. He could be downright delectable when he was angry. She smiled all the way home.

Little did she know that the jewels that she had already thought of as her own were to be pilfered that very night, and not by her.

TBC

Ooh, aren't I awful? A cliffhanger. 

And wasn't she terrible to Roxton? He will get his own back soon enough

Reviews are what I live for. Can't write without em. So what are you waiting for?


	4. What a Brunch This Has Been

Devil May Care Part 4/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 through 3. Still do not own the characters of the Lost World- though oh, how I wish I owned Will Snow's smile!

Author's Notes: Again, I apologize for the delay- finals. That time of the year. Plus the whole moving out and transfer of all my worldly goods three states over. No fun but it cannot be helped. To make amends, this part is extra long. Yippee. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"I know that he who frets/ Loses the night." ~ Devil May Care, Bob Dorough

"D. Pedro: O day untowardly turned!

Claudius: O mischief strangely thwarting!

D. John: O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel. " ~ Much Ado About Nothing, William Shakespeare

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Day After

Marguerite was entering the Ritz dining hall for luncheon (or in her case, breakfast) when she was stopped by the head waiter at the door.

"Your cousin, miss, has stopped by. We have seated him at your usual table."

"My cousin" she repeated. She looked to the table by the window. For a woman with no past, no family, to have a cousin appear well, this was a sight to be seen, was it not? Sitting there in her typical seat was indeed someone she knew. Someone she thought she would not being seeing ever again. She laughed merrily to wipe the concern off the waiter's face. "Of course! My cousin! It is Wednesday, isn't it?" she said, as if she had had an appointment that had been temporarily forgotten.

The waiter beamed at her and led her to her table. The man rose from his seat. "Cousin!" he said, his hand extended for hers.

The waiter saw her smile at this; the man, who knew her better, knew she was baring her fangs. Allowing him to hold her hand for a mere instant and refusing to let him kiss her long fingers, she waited impatiently for him to pull out her chair so she could be seated.

"Been a long time, hasn't it, Marguerite?" he whispered into her ear as he pushed her chair forward towards the table, before returning to his own.

"Too long," she succinctly replied in the same faux sugar voice.

They fell silent as the waiter came round to place her napkin in her lap and take her order. When he was well out of distance, Marguerite leveled a stare at her companion.

He did not flinch. He knew her too well to cower under that steely gaze. It unnerved him; no one could withstand it completely, but he would not be forced into looking away. Instead, he did what was expected of him: he talked. "I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here."

"Dear me, what a hopelessly cliché opening. I hope you're not going to talk like that the entire time- I shan't need to order sweet rolls."

"You haven't changed," he laughed. "Blunt as ever."

"Sharp, rather," she said, fixing her gaze on the window and retaining her unimpressed countenance.

The man suppressed a grin. "By the by, my name's Robinson today, should anyone ask."

"As in Jack? My, how droll."

"Your enthusiasm is overwhelming, as usual. There is a slight problem."

"Well, that's obvious, isn't it?" she said, her impatience creeping into her voice.

"Certain papers have been misplaced."

"Stolen secrets? By whom?"

"We're not entirely certain. We know that he or she," he added hastily, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from Marguerite, "had a man on the inside"

"Whom, I take it, is no longer with us?"

"Gone to meet his maker three days ago."

"By our chauffeur?" she said with a wry smile. The department did have a nasty habit of effectively dealing with traitors, quickly and quietly.

"No- the, erm, driver was unknown," he managed, as the waiter returned with her order. 

She daintily picked at her food, her breakfast suddenly unpalatable. When, o when, would she ever extricate herself from his Majesty's service? 

"And if I refused?" she said, lifting a strawberry half to her lips.

"You're not exactly in a bargaining position, my dear," he said condescendingly, watching her as her eyes flared with annoyance. She swallowed the strawberry and touched a napkin to each side of her mouth.

"You forget Jack, was it? That deals can always be made," she remarked as she lowered the napkin. "As well as broken," she ended ominously.

He chuckled nervously. That was always the hazard with dealing with her: one minute you were bantering casually and the next you had to fend off threats. 

"Well, I can't say the department's been fair to you in the past"

"Bloody well haven't."

"but I will say that should this little affair be cleaned up, quietly and efficiently," he paused for effect, "all records would be mysteriously gone."

"Criminal as well as?" she would refuse to say the name in public. The codename of the most successful spy of the Great War- a triple agent at that- and her old nom de guerre. **That** record remained secret to only a handful of prominent individuals within the War Office. It should have made them beholden to _her_ but in the weird workings of fate, it was the other way around. They had depended on her before, and they would continue to do so as well as they knew they held something she desired. Namely, her freedom.

"Yes," he said confidently.

"Ah, but you see, that's what they said before," she said wearily. "I grow tired of your games. Those records were destroyed."

"The old criminal charges, yes. But it seems to me that you have been busy since you last worked for us haven't you?"

She did not reply but busied herself with buttering her croissant, all the while looking directly into his eyes. 

"Building up quite the little nest egg. Can't imagine what for," he said, smiling and toying with the table cloth. He was winning and he knew it.

"Preparation for a long, cold winter," she replied coolly, raising an eyebrow. "Girl's got to have something to keep her warm at night."

They stared at each other for a while, his confidence in victory waning ever so slightly. Finally, he spoke. "The recovery of these documents is critical, Marguerite. It's very important that they don't fall into the wrong hands. Now you can refuse and continue working for Xian or whoever you care to call your current employer, but realize that we can be a very powerful friend. And an even more powerful enemy."

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied sarcastically, eyeing him critically and frowning ever so slightly.

"You know how to reach me, if you change your mind," he said, rising. "Good day, Marguerite."

"Jack," she said with the same unimpressed expression. It was of little consequence; he knew that she'd consider the deal. 

And so she did, silently fuming and finishing her brunch. She hadn't wanted to work for the War Office in the first place, but it was only logical. She had the language skills, the connections in almost every facet of society high to low across numerous countries- continents even. Not to mention all the finely honed skills of an expert thief, liar, and seductress. And she had been caught. By the very same smug son of a bitch who had sat down in her chair and called her cousin. 

She loved her freedom. It was one of the only things that she considered in her life to be positive: the ability to go anywhere, do anything and be beholden to no one. She had her hand caught in the cookie jar- to be blunt, it was the private safe of one of the King's cousins- and she had forfeited her prison sentence for what was now appearing to be lifetime service with the government's espionage team. 

She hated it. It was a tricky thing, being a spy, acting as a double or triple agent, and it wasn't just the logistics of keeping your loyalties and cover stories in line. She had missions and duties to fulfill but she wasn't always let in on the big secret. Like with him today. Papers missing, stolen. **Important** papers just gone. They must suspect someone- didn't tell me who. Must have something of special significance to call on me to retrieve it- didn't tell me what it was. Or who wants it. And why it's so special to them to have it back- not destroyed, otherwise he would have said to destroy them. Get them back. Hmmm

Her mind raced with scenarios, each permutating into more unanswered questions and yet more scenarios. That was the trouble of spying; you can't let on that you don't know information and you can't ask for it- at least, not directly. He had left her some crumbs, just enough to peak her interest. 

Damn the man! This is going to be serious chink in my plans, she thought disgustedly. Just as she had been preparing for the Roxton heist. She was fully satisfied with her capabilities to get back into the Roxton townhouse and already had decided which accessory she would pilfer: Lady Beatrice's sapphire necklace. She had seen the lady wear it at a tea being held by Mrs. Caruthers a few days before and had, of course, coveted it. One little piece that would most certainly fetch a very nice (and considerably ample) price. Not to mention the fact that if only one small token of the lady's considerable collection was missing, it would be most likely considered a misplaced object before a theft. 

Angrily musing on this, she belatedly noticed that she was being marked. A man, in a gray suit and tweed hat, was speaking with one of the porters who seemed to be gesturing to her. He looked young, was clean-shaven and slight of build. He looked like another one of the young dilettantes with the exception of his clothes.

No respectable member of the upper class would ever wear a suit like that. Not even Nigel's less fortunate friend, the Spitter, as Marguerite liked to refer to him. Such an unbecoming color- and with a tweed hat, no less! No, that man worked for a living. And he probably was single. Either that or his wife was blind. 

She watched him out of her peripheral vision as he began to approach her table with a forced idleness, as if he were casually strolling along without a purpose. As he got closer, she noticed a notebook sticking out of his pocket and ink stains on the cuffs of his shirt. Ah, a writer, she thought triumphantly, sipping her tea.

He stood in front of her and smiled. Setting the cup down slowly and daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth, she waited until he had to clear his throat before looking up at him. 

"Did you want something? If not, please move- you're blocking my view," she said, waving her hand. He turned and belatedly realized his back was to the windows.

"May I sit down?" he asked, grabbing the empty chair across from her.

"It seems as though I can't stop you," she commented nastily, her eyebrow raised at the alacrity at which he had claimed his seat. An American to boot, from the accent. No wonder he wasn't civilized. 

"Oh do forgive me it's just that- that- you're Marguerite Krux, aren't you?" he asked, his voice filled with hope. She leveled a stare at him. 

What could this man possibly want with her? She didn't know him, she was sure she didn't move in any of the social circles of his friends- if he had any- and her name meant nothing to no one. 

"Yes I am. And you are?"

"Oh, I am so sorry. So sorry!" he said, a grin breaking out on his face. He looked like he just had been handed a silver platter. Wiping his hands on his jacket, he extended a hand towards her. "Ned Malone."

She noticed the other hand was busy extracting the notebook under the table so that she wouldn't see.

"So," he said, still grinning like an idiot.

"So," she said back. Well, if he was a reporter, he damn well start asking me questions, she thought as she fiddled with her teaspoon. 

"Did you do it?" he blurted out, after some indeterminate amount of time.

"Did I do what?" she asked, her tone getting harsher by the second. Really, the man was positively, mind-numbingly and utterly irritating. Guessing games with the press were not her idea of spending a leisurely afternoon. Especially after the morning she had been having.

"Did you steal them? Lady Roxton's jewels?"

"What did you say?" she asked in a controlled voice as she felt her stomach sink.

"D'ya mean you don't know?" he asked, his eyes getting wide and that grin of his slowly draining off his face.

"Isn't that obvious?"

"But you- but he- they said that-" he stammered.

"Oh do shut up. Are you trying to tell me," she said, barely reigning in her temper, "that someone stole Lady Roxton's jewels- last night? Just nod your head, yes or no?"

He nodded his head vigorously. "Yes and-"

"Do not open your mouth until I give you permission," she said sternly. "And you were assigned the story by your newspaper?"

His eyes went wide and he almost began to speak. Marguerite shot him one of her best withering glares and he clamped his lips shut while shaking his head no.

"Doing it on spec?"

A nod yes.

"Well, aren't you the boy scout?" she commented, baring her teeth. "And from your already exhaustive research, you've determined that I was at the party last night and must be the culprit," she said sarcastically, watching him blush. "And what was it exactly that I stole?" she inquired, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair, still giving him a glare. "You may speak now," she added impatiently.

"A ruby brooch, a pair of diamond earrings, a peridot ring," here he paused to flip a page of his notes, "and a sapphire necklace."

The bastards took my mark! Marguerite frowned in annoyance. Whoever it was seemed to have taken the trouble not only to take what she wanted, but to set her up for the fall as well. Could it have been her erstwhile "cousin"? No, he had been referring to past marks. And stealing from a Lord of the Realm in order to blackmail her stooped even below **his** low standards of ethics. Might as well see what the young imbecile knew about it before she began her own inquiries.

"And why did you believe that I had stolen them?"

"Well, usually with a theft of this kind, we interview the servants- ask them if they heard or saw anything unusual. The butler says he found a photograph on the floor of the library that had a bullet hole in it."

"Not for decoration, I assume," she commented wryly. Damn, I just had to show off last night, didn't I?

"No one can recall hearing the shot but then there was a party going on and it was at the other end of the house. I was going to ask Lord Roxton about it but he's been tied up with the police all morning," he said gloomily. "The butler said you had been in the library with him did you hear anything?"

"No," Marguerite said plainly, looking him squarely in the eye. He certainly wouldn't question her honesty- too young and idealistic. 

"Oh," he said and looked dejected once more. 

"I take it you've set yourself out to discovering- what is that American phrase?- whodunit?" she asked more hospitably.

"Oh, yes, I suppose I have. By the by, how did you know?"

"That you were a journalist? You stick out like a sore thumb. And only a newspaperman with a pressing deadline would be so hasty as to question a lady with whom he had no previous acquaintance."

He blushed again and shifted in his chair. The poor thing was embarrassed. Well, he should be, thought Marguerite, it serves him right for not paying attention to social conventions in pursuit of a damned story.

"I'm sorry, Miss Krux, it's just that this could be the story of a lifetime!"

"Your big break?"

He nodded vigorously. " The thing which makes it all the more interesting is that Lady Roxton swears that all her jewels were locked up in the safe- and no callers, strange noises or anything out of the ordinary happened between the end of the party and when she discovered the theft this morning," he said, abstractly tapping his pencil against his pad. "It's a professional job," he said quietly, apparently deep in thought.

"Then why question me?" she said, her temper getting the better of her again. How could this ignorant young fool even consider?

"Oh, didn't you know? The safe- it's in the library." Marguerite raised an eyebrow at this as he stumbled on with his apologies. "And you were the only one in that part of the house, so I just figured"

"Well, you 'figured' wrong," she said superciliously and glaring at him once more. She inclined her head at his continued protests of penitence and finally sent him on his way. 

What a day this has been- and I haven't even finished breakfast yet! Bloody government wants a job done, my mark is stolen and I get the blame, and now I'll have a blasted journalist nipping at my heels, trying to catch me in the act! Marguerite frowned as she stared out through the window. And probably John Roxton will be paying me a visit too- along with the flashers. Not what I needed. Not at all, she thought angrily, shaking her head.

Well, she thought resolvedly, I'm not going to wait around here for something else to bloody go wrong. Time to figure out what the hell is going on- and how to fix it all. She rose from her table and with considerable determination, prepared to leave and begin her inquiries. 

TBC

Oooh, and more questions arise. Don't worry- it's not the last of them. g And by the end of this week, I'll have finally seen the pilot movie- hurrah! 

Coming soon Roxton, more people from Marguerite's past, yet another problem and an explanation for the disappearance of wealth 

Review- it'll make you feel special. (Won't hurt me either)


	5. The Criminal Element

Devil May Care Part 5/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 through 4.

A/N: I like to pretend that I can be historically accurate but really, who knows what I actually come up with. I tried to recreate some turn of the century criminal slang- if you get curious/confused at their meanings- check the end of the chapter. 

Thank you all for your continued support. It tells me it's worthwhile to continue this crazy thing. I think I've lost some of you along the way but please drop a line to tell me you're still interested. Would hate to be doing this for naught.

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"criminals are not limited in intelligence, and it is probable that the reverse is true. Studies of prison populations show that inmates equal the general public in intelligence tests- and yet the prisoners represent that fraction of lawbreakers who are caught." ~ The Great Train Robbery, Michael Crichton

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Marguerite made her way through the grime-covered streets of the East End. It had gotten no cleaner and if it were possible, more disreputable since the last time she had been in England. At all her old haunts, it was business as usual, in wartime or not. 

One of the first places she had stopped by on coming into town was the Old Man's pawn shop. No one knew his real name- he could be as old as the hills as no one was quite sure of his age either. But he went by The Old Man and he was no longer young, so it was fitting. Though it was certain he was an Englishman, no one knew from where- some days he spoke in fluent Cockney and others, the Queen's English. He knew if you so much as sneezed in the East End and was as mercenary as they came. Naturally, Marguerite had a soft spot for him. 

So after donning the appropriate clothes, she had set out for his shop, a horribly dirty establishment, hidden half in the shadows of a tenement building, with windows so covered with dirt and soot that no one could see the transactions that occurred within. 

She entered and as usual, he was nowhere to be seen. All of his regulars knew how to play his game and would abide by the rules. She idly scanned the items haphazardly strewn about the shop. Not much was new; in fact, he never did do a lot of real business. Not any business that could be so prominently displayed anyhow. 

With a rustling of the tattered blue curtain that concealed the back room from view, he appeared. He saw Marguerite and nodded, a slight smile forming on his face. She had been a favored customer for years. 

"Still mourning, lady?" his raspy voice asked, with the slightest hint of sarcasm. He always called Marguerite "lady" and she had never questioned him. She supposed he meant it as a compliment- he was not exactly the soul of discretion but had never had pressed for a name from her. She was just "lady" to him. A lady forever in mourning, as she would consistently visit dressed completely in black, a veil obscuring her features from the prying eyes that abounded in this part of the city. 

"My grief is infinite, Old Man," she replied in kind. 

His eyes twinkled and his wry half smile returned to his face. "Is the lady buying or selling today?" He had fenced some of the more valuable and visible pieces that she had stolen, most recently Nigel's pocket watch and his dear aunt's pearls.

"More like browsing," she replied simply. "Jewelry," she added with a wave of her hand. 

"Anythin' in partic'lar?" he said, nodding, his gnarled fingers scratching his cheeks thoughtfully.

"Yes. Something in blue, perhaps?" she said obliquely, running her hands along her throat. 

"No, lady. Nothing like that," he replied, shaking his head, his brow furrowed.

Disappointed but not yet nonplussed- the necklace was probably the most distinctive piece of the heist and may have been too hot to fence so soon, she tried again. "How about something sparkling?" she queried again, fingering her left earlobe. Maybe she'd have better luck finding the diamonds. 

Again a nod no. Marguerite frowned. "The selection has gone down considerably," she said critically, and then continued, "Nothing in red, or gold?"

"I'm sorry, lady," he replied, as Marguerite began to curse in several languages under her breath. She had been depending on him to have some inside information for her.

He seemed to sense her frustration and he met her at the counter. "These things you're browsing for they have been desired long?"

"No- only since last night," she said, the disappointment evident in her voice.

"Do not despair then, lady- perhaps I will have something soon," he said, patting her hand and giving her one of his odd smiles. "I will hold it for you- one of my prettiest customers."

She looked up at him, grateful, fondly noticing that his crow's feet had become more pronounced and his skin sagged heavier than it had several years ago. It pained Marguerite to discover that she actually cared what happened to the old goat. He couldn't keep doing this forever and there had been a time when he wouldn't have bothered about what she was looking for, only if she had enough money to pay for it. 

He seemed to read her mind, with that odd intuition that he would display every once in awhile. His smile disappeared and he shook his finger underneath her nose. "Don't look like that, lady. I know I'm becoming quite senile in my old age. I take it this is important?"

Fighting back a smile, she nodded solemnly. "But we talk too much of me. Perhaps you have had some new customers in the shop of late?"

He nodded his head knowingly. "No one of consequence- however, there was one that was particularly foolish. A young man, obviously wealthy, who came in 'just to look,' he says," the Old Man said condescendingly recreating the young man's accent. "And he proceeds to badger me with questions, 'and how does one pawn something, sir?' Bloody amateurs," he sniffed, professional disdain in his voice. 

"No one takes the time to learn the craft anymore, do they?" she commented with a small smile.

"The lady has always been a master," he said, with a inclination of his head. He watched with fond eyes as she began to pull on her gloves. He became serious as she finished, and with a furrowed brow, addressed her in a more tentative voice. "I'm sure that the lady doesn't need me to tell her that certain undesirables are about. With the war over, they have nothing better to do"

"Are you telling me to be careful?" she said, raising an eyebrow. She could hardly believe it- the Old Man seemed to actually **care** about _her_. And what had she ever done for him? Nothing. Merely listened to his complaints every once in a while but what did that matter? It should certainly not merit such concern. 

His eyes narrowed in response. "The lady can be impulsive but never off guard. Simply a friendly reminder to remain as such," he sniffed, not doing a good job of acting contemptuous. 

She couldn't help it; she laughed. Impetuously taking his hand, she gave him one of her rare smiles and said, "Thank you. For everything."

His eyes shone and his lips slowly curled into a grin. He extracted his hand and waved her off, slowly retreating to the back of the store with arthritic steps. "Be off with you now- I can't be pestered with you all day long, have work to do."

Rolling her eyes, she adjusted her veil and exited the shop. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He watched her from across the street, slowly making her way up the pavement after coming out of the Old Man's place. Ducking from one alleyway to the one directly across from it, one she had just passed, he never failed to keep his eyes on his mark, just like his father had taught him. He had always been rather short for his age and poverty had kept him thin, so he easily squeezed between the people that separated him from her. Only two people now stood between him and his goal: the lady's black purse, swinging from her elegant left hand.

As she came to the corner to stop for a passing produce cart, he sprang into action- ran forward, snatched the purse and made a dash down the side alley. He could hear her yelling out after him and grinned; no flashers dared to come 'round this side of town and no one would be tom-fool enough to chase after one of their own. 

He rounded another corner, then another, knowing the twisted streets like the back of his hand, after all his seven years of growing up in a hole in the wall not far off from where he was now. He slowed his pace and in the shadow of a rickety back stairway for a tenement, he extracted his prize from underneath his arm. It felt heavy and he grinned again. He might actually get something decent to eat tonight.

Before opening it, however, he craned his neck around the side of the stairs, making sure no one else was about. In this part of town, anybody with anything was a mark- even if they were a fellow pincher. 

Just then, he felt his shirt collar being yanked up skyward, him with it. Another hand shot out and after taking the purse, he was unceremoniously dropped to the ground. Dazed, he looked up and was astonished at what he saw.

It was her! She was not happy and was checking the contents of the purse, her body clearly blocking escape in that direction and her foot firmly planted on his, rooting him to the spot.

"I din take nuthin!" he said indignantly, placing his fallen cap back onto his head.

"You din take nuthin?" she repeated venomously, glaring at him. "You took this," she said, lifting up the purse. 

"Nuthin from _inside_," he said in a poisonously polite voice, as if he was speaking to an imbecile.

"You better not have or I'll have you in Newgate before you can say the Crushers are coming!"

"Naw- I din't! I din't!" he protested.

Seemingly satisfied, she looped the purse string on her hand again and glared at him, releasing her hold on his foot. "You had better watch your marks better. You might not get off so easy next time," she finished icily and turned to leave.

"Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" he said, bolting up from the ground to walk at her side. " 'Ow did you know?" he asked curiously. He hadn't figured her for a local girl.

"How did I know what?" she replied nastily, still keeping a brisk pace and weaving her way through the alley with skill.

" 'Ow did you know where Aye was goin'? Cuz Aye knows yous weren't behind me when aye nipped your purse."

"I know a dub buzzer when I see one," she said cuttingly, moving across to an adjacent alley.

"Ey! Aye be one of the best matchstick dippers 'round!" he said indignantly. He worked off and on for a match manufacturer and as a result, had very nimble fingers. He was quick and had a light touch- which is why his father had begun to train him in the fine art of stealing, before he died a month ago. It was a well known fact that the best of the dippers in the legal sense became the best of the dippers in the not so legal sense by the time they were grown. 

"You barely made away with my purse- you managed to half knock me over as well as the produce cart. That your idea of a soft touch on the fly?"

"Aye's can be very suttle if aye's like to," he sniffed.

"I seriously doubt that." They had reached the end of the alleyways; the only recourse was to reenter the main street. "Now go away, before I find a nice constable to talk to."

"Yous into snow then, aren' ya?" he said, knowledge dawning on his face, thinking he had figured it out.

"I'm nobody, brat, but I'm better than a bloody clean-starcher," she said haughtily. 

He gasped. Only someone well-skilled in the trade would have been insulted by that remark. "Yous a cracksman or aye be the biggest flimp in all the East End!"

"So you are," she said, baring her teeth and with a swirl of her skirts, swept into the crowd. When he appeared by her side again moments later, she seemed surprised. "What are you doing?" she hissed at him, barely turning her head. "I thought I told you to go away!"

"Aye snuck up on ya, din aye? This flimp's got some talent, eh?" he replied, grinning conceitedly up at her only to receive a glare in return. "Not til you tell me 'ow you did it."

"You're going to keep following me until I tell you how I caught you?"

With a martyred sigh, she grimaced and said in a low voice, "Fine. If you use that alley to get anywhere fast, you have to make two turns- one that curves with the pub and one that follows the back of the tenement. Not very hard to track you down- especially if you go through the Teashop." The Teashop was a local brothel that specialized in exotica for the upper classes, with most of their business done in code for extra privacy. It had a back door that opened on the street just before the tenement building.

His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and he shook his head, unwilling admiration on his face. "Coo, Aye never would'a guessed."

She shot him a look that seemed to say she was well aware of that fact. 

She had reached a dilapidated apartment building and had stopped, more desperate to shake him off. "Now go pester someone else, brat."

"Look 'ere, yous can tell me- Aye won't turn nose on ya- yous are a cracksman aren' ya? Or a magsman? Smasher?" he asked rapidly, practically skipping with excitement.

She sighed again and tapped her foot impatiently, acting as if she was looking in a neighboring shop window.

"Aye can see a professional when Aye sees one," he said confidently, his voice getting louder with his glee.

She turned on him, grabbing his collar again and yanking him closer to hiss into his ear- "Why don't you scream a little louder- I don't think the militonians on the Strand heard you."

He smiled up at her and plucked her hand from his collar. "Oh, Aye's can be real quiet-like- if yous promise to teach me."

"Teach you? You're a street-urchin sweeper-"

"And Aye want to be a dipper that does ream flash pulls."

"Why me?" He didn't know if she was addressing him, as she muttered it under her breath, considerably annoyed.

"Me dad was gonna do it but he went lavender and now Aye's need someone to show me," he replied softly.

With a scowl, she turned from him to enter the apartment. "What's your name, brat?"

"They's call me Spring Heel Willy."

"No they don't," she said wryly, knowing he was lying through his teeth.

"Well, they's called me pop dat!" he said frustrated. Shuffling his feet, he said without looking up, "Tom."

"Fine. Tom. I'll show you how to pull one or two tricks, but that's it- do you understand? And if you bloody turn nose on me, I'll shove a barker under your nose and you can say hallo to your daddy for me. Clear?"

"Crystal," he said gulping audibly.

With that, she disappeared within the apartment building. He sat outside until dusk without seeing her leave before he knew that she had gone. While knowing that he couldn't trust her to come back, he had an odd feeling that he would be seeing her again and he hoped that he could impress enough to be taken on as an apprentice. And so he would return, and wait until his time came as he knew it must.

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The Same Day, across town, Nigel Wainwright's Apartments

"I don't believe it!" St. John was saying for the third time, and pacing to and fro across the room as was his wont.

Nigel looked up from the sofa, his expression conveying that he was clearly bored with his friend's disbelief. "It is done, old bean. Nothing to it."

"I mean, I told you I'd help you out but I didn't think you'd do this!" St. John exclaimed again, shaking his head which was now sporting quite a large bump on its right side.

"I don't see what you're so worked up over," said Nigel, cultivating a blasé countenance.

"You don't see? You wouldn't!" St. John spat, flopping down into an armchair. "You can't go around stealing from Lords of the Realm. It- it- it just isn't **done**!"

"Oh, but it is, and I have, and come this time tomorrow, Marguerite will be so pleased with me," Nigel remarked, smiling to himself.

"Marguerite? This is about her?" St. John looked at his erstwhile friend in shock. "What the devil--?"

"She's dying, the poor thing," Nigel said in all seriousness, his voice becoming soft. "I must try to help her anyway I can."

St. John was at first nonplussed at this revelation, which he had no reason to not assume as true. But he continued with trying to convince Nigel of his wrongdoing. "First of all, I'm sure she has quite enough money of her own, the reputation of an heiress"

"I owe it to her to see that she's comfortable in her last six months," Nigel sniffed, offended, as if it should be clear to any simpleton that this was not only a gentleman's duty and a labor of love.

"Well- then- fine, but what about your own money? Or even asking your aunt for an advance on your allowance?" St. John reasoned, his chin getting ever so much more damp with his growing consternation.

"After I lost my pocket money for the month, you think the old bat would condescend to supplement my extra expenses? Ha!" Nigel laughed bitterly. 

"But stealing? What if you get caught?" St. John supposed, lowering his voice.

"I won't get caught. They probably won't even notice that it's gone," Nigel said complacently.

St. John got up from his seat and began to pace again, extracting his handkerchief from his lapel pocket and running it over his face. "I'm an accomplice to robbery," he muttered to himself wearily. "We could go to prison!" he said louder for Nigel's benefit.

"For goodness sake, man, pull yourself together! No one will find out."

St. John stopped in his tracks, suddenly remembering his previously throbbing head. "But someone knew!" he said mournfully, pointing to his evident bump. 

"You tripped, you silly fool. That's what the butler thinks anyhow and he's all that matters. No one else saw your hurt." Sighing, Nigel rose from his seat and motioned his friend to the writing desk. He extracted a bulky folded cloth and showed St. John what he had taken.

"What do you think? I know of a pawn shop where it can fetch a pretty good price- maybe I might have some money left over to go towards that automobile," Nigel said triumphantly, covering it and placing it back in the secret compartment of the desk.

"What- with my cut too?" St. John questioned him skeptically, still worried and now not at all sure that he would be receiving any kind of monetary compensation for his aching head.

"Of course, of course! Old school tie, noblesse oblige, and all that. Wouldn't let you down, old man," said Nigel, smiling wide and leading his friend away to dinner.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC Confrontations galore next time 'round and a few plot twists g

__

Crusher police officer

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Dub buzzer a snatch pickpocket / low grade thief

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Into snow stealing rich folks' laundry off the line, a lower echelon of the criminal class regulated to young girls

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Clean starcher girl who works in snow (see above)

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Cracksman burglar

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Flimp a dub buzzer (see above)

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Magsman con artist

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Smasher counterfeiter

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Militonian police

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Sweeper ruffian, petty thief

__

Ream very, considerably

__

Flash pull large robbery

__

In lavender dead, missing/on the lam

__

Barker gun


	6. Curiouser and curiouser

Devil May Care Part 6/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes- see parts 1-5. 

A/N: Historical note- Field Marshall Conrad von Hotzendorff was indeed a real figure in history- though his son, for the purposes of this story, is fictional. I have no idea if the man actually had children much less a son, but Karl's rash nature is one that has been attributed to Conrad. 

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"There are two things that are infinite: the universe and human stupidity- and I am not sure about the former." ~ Albert Einstein

"Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me/ Like any hot blooded woman, I have simply wanted a object to crave/ But you/ You're not allowed." ~ "Uninvited," Alanis Morrissette 

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Nigel Wainwright's Apartments, Late Evening, Same Day

"God, am I fagged," sighed Nigel, sinking onto the sofa after packing in quite the hearty supper. 

St. John merely nodded assent, and taking the other end of the sofa, extracted his cigarette case and extended it to his friend. They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments, before St. John's nagging conscience got the better of him again.

"I still can't believe you did that," he said, with a puff of smoke.

"Still harping on it, eh?" Nigel replied, shaking his head and was about to reply further when his aunt's butler entered the room with their coffee and sherry alongside the evening paper on a silver tray. Shoving the paper aside, the two each claimed a beverage and remained quiet until the man was gone. 

"Bloody hell, Nigel- this isn't a game!" St. John exploded, saliva flying from his mouth.

"You think I don't know that?" he sneered back.

"I am in enough trouble with the relatives as it is- an **accomplice**to-to-"

"You'll be fine. No one will ever know you were involved," Nigel said, seeing now his friend's real crisis of conscience. "Besides, if anyone should get an inkling, you can always tell them I beaned you, pushed you down the stairs as you were violently protesting involvement," he added with a twinge of sarcasm and a grin.

"You always were a good egg," St. John replied, now a bit more complacent and partaking of his sherry. He was about to ask Nigel about how exactly they would go about getting the money but was interrupted by a small scratching sound and a faint cough from behind the lounge doors, the tell tale signs of the butler requesting entrance. 

Sure enough, the butler made his appearance and announced that there was a visitor in the hall, and should the masters be at home?

St. John looked at the clock- it read half past ten. Who the devil would be calling now? 

Nigel echoed St. John's thoughts by demanding to know who the visitor was.

The butler sniffed haughtily and replied, "The lady did not give me a name, sir. She spoke of an acquaintance with you. Shall I send her on her way?"

Nigel seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, then appeared to have reached some decision and told him to send her up. 

St. John looked wide-eyed at his friend. What the hell was he doing? "Were you expecting anyone?"

Nigel shook his head and sucked on the nail of his thumb, apparently still thinking about the decision he just made. "No, no but I think I have an idea of who wouldn't want to give their name if they visited-"

He was silenced as the door opened again to reveal their visitor on the threshold. 

"Marguerite!" Nigel squealed in delight and leapt off the sofa. St. John rose more slowly, out of politeness.

"Nigel," she said simply, extending her hand that Nigel promptly kissed affectionately. 

"You remember my friend St. John -er, Smythe?" Nigel stammered, momentarily recalling social responsibilities.

Marguerite inclined her head towards St. John, which he reciprocated in kind. "Of course- how are you St. John?" she asked in the sweetest of tones, while looking directly at his bruised cranium.

"Very well, thank you," he managed, self-consciously smoothing out his hair on the right side of his head and reseating himself as she took a chair directly across from the sofa.

What a horrible liar, Marguerite thought disgustedly. Nigel began to make small talk which gave her leave to review her plan of attack. Her activities of the day had been primarily directed towards reaching back into the "good ole boys" network of the undesirable and disreputable, to see if she could get a handle on who had pulled the Roxton job- after shrugging off that pernicious little sweeper. How she attracted Tom was beyond her- she was no surrogate parent (probably don't have a maternal bone in my body, she mused) and he would do well to learn that as soon as possible. She had no time to baby-sit and the rest of the afternoon had established her interests with certain influentials but no information was forthcoming. At least, not yet.

Two important and contradictory things about the evening stood out clear for her. One was that the job was clearly professional; whoever had pulled it off knew where the safe was not to mention the peculiarities of the townhouse's inhabitants. (In a side excursion, she managed to chat it up with one of the Roxton footmen in a pub. She had discovered that apparently the horribly decorated library had previously served as a study to the late Lord Roxton. This gentleman had been overly concerned with security in his London flat- all the more sensible for him, in the footman's opinion, especially seeing the results of the previous evening- than at his Avebury estate. It was his practice to keep his wife's jewelry in his safe with his important papers- not only for security, but also it seems, that he had always enjoyed retrieving them and assisting his wife with adorning herself. As the footman had put it, "the master always was somethin' of a romantic, doncha know? 'Is son's just like 'im- won't give up tradition- ever so kind to 'is mum.") The unknown cracksman had known the layout of the house, known there would be a party as suitable distracting cover, and may have even known that she would be there- another colleague to take the blame for the heist.

The second thing - which concerned her more- was the injury to St. John and Nigel's sudden turn around from forlorn young puppy to ebullient sonnet-spouter. As she sat there listening to Nigel recount the day's events, she noticed that St. John seemed particularly on edge- kept shifting in his chair and darting his eyes about the room, like a caged animal looking for a way out. Yes, they were hiding something, these two young idiots. She was certain that Nigel had been the imbecile the Old Man had spoken of. 

And that was part of the problem. If it was a professional job, **they** couldn't have done it. No way on this earth, short of supernatural intervention or possession. Unless they paid someone to do their dirty work for them, of course but then why should St. John have gotten knocked out? Their plans go awry? And yet Nigel seemed happy enough

Absolutely maddening. She decided to get it over with; she had had quite her share of chit chat and politics. "Dreadful about the Roxton's, isn't it?" she said bluntly.

Nigel froze mid-piffle and St. John appeared to get even more rigid. A terrified expression crossed his face as his head swiveled towards Nigel. Nigel himself tried to pass it off- but he couldn't hide that blush or the stutter: "Oh, y-yes. Dread-dreadful, yes."

"Lady Roxton, so I've heard, is very upset. Have you spoken to her?"

"Oh, no. No," Nigel squeaked, while St. John made a show of nodding his head vigorously. 

"The papers speculated that it might have been an inside job. To be burgled by one's one servants like that!" she scoffed in a theatrical manner. "It's absolutely horrible!"

"Is that what they're saying- that- that the _servants_ did it?" St. John said, concerned. 

At Marguerite's nod of assent, St. John got up abruptly and began to pace, nervously biting off his practically non-existent fingernails, while Nigel affixed a singular attentiveness to his shoes. When Nigel looked up, he seemed close to tears.

"Nigel- what is it?" Marguerite asked, bringing concern into her voice. Yes, Nigel, do tell.

"Ohmygoodness," he whispered to himself, then jerked his head up to look at St. John. "Oh God- I am so sorry- I didn't- " his head swiveled back to Marguerite, "Oh Marguerite- I I"

Marguerite suppressed a grimace as she watched him try to control himself. She went over to the sofa and cooed softly to him, hoping to calm him down. She'd never get any information from him if he chose to have hysterics now.

Meanwhile, her ears were well aware of St. John's mutterings- some of which were more intelligible than others. "No one would know, you said accomplice no inkling what will aunt say? prison for sure, no doubt about it Mabel won't marry me "

Finally, Marguerite's control snapped. "What the devil is going on here, boys? What do you know about the robbery that you're not telling anyone?" she asked loudly, shocking them both. 

Nigel resumed his quaking on the sofa and St. John was too petrified to pace. Finally, the latter extracted his fingers from his mouth to spit at his companion: "Show her, then, man. Make her proud," he sneered, these last words aimed to sting and showing their effect clearly on Nigel's countenance.

He got up from the sofa and approached his writing desk, extracting the self same parcel from the secret compartment that he had shown St. John only hours before. Pensively, he walked over to Marguerite and placed it in her hands. "I did it for you, you know. I only wanted to help"

Marguerite gaped at him. It couldn't be! Nigel and St. John? Slowly, she unwrapped the parcel in her hands and peeled away the fabric holding its contents. When she saw what it was, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She folded the cloth back up and folded her hands in her lap. Clearing her throat and with a vain attempt to control her violent thoughts and emotions, she gave both men critical looks. 

"It's Lady Roxton's letter opener," she stated. Wrapped so delicately and hidden with such care a bloody letter opener! Sure, the handle was gilded in gold but her knowing eye knew it wasn't solid through or even 24 karat. 

"I know, I know" Nigel shook his head, ashamed.

"It was all his idea," St. John said, pointing an accusing finger at his friend.

"You stole her letter opener?" she repeated incredulously. Really, this was too absurd.

"It was his idea!" St. John repeated emphatically in a high pitched squeal.

"I'm sorry- I don't understand," Marguerite said frankly. "What about her necklace, the rings, the brooch? Did you steal them too?"

"What?" Nigel went almost blue and St. John choked on a fingernail. 

"You mean, there was another burglary?"

With an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, she picked up the paper that the butler had brought in earlier and turned to the page of the story, before handing it to St. John. "I naturally assumed you had read this evening's paper. Second column," she pointed and waited to see his reaction. 

Nigel read over his shoulder. Mr. Malone certainly did have a tendency towards exaggeration and lurid metaphors, but he could write with competency and clearly outlined what the police had discovered concerning the burglary. 

Marguerite watched as St. John turned green and fumbled for a handkerchief to raise to his lips while Nigel meanwhile turned as pale as death. 

St. John pulled himself together first. "Lady Roxton's jewels were stolen?" he whispered.

"Did you really think Scotland Yard would be called up for a missing letter opener?" she scoffed accusingly. Curiouser and curiouser

"It's gold!" Nigel defended himself plaintively.

"It's worth a few pounds at most. Now, I think you boys owe me an explanation- what exactly what happened last night?"

And so it was that Nigel and St. John unfolded their story. Apparently, Nigel had visited the pawn shop earlier in the week upon the loss of his wallet and pocket watch. He needed the extra cash for an automobile and was considering pawning off some dusty knickknacks of his aunt's, hoping she'd never miss them. However, with the knowledge of Marguerite's desperate situation last night, Nigel had decided that more drastic methods must be pursued and decided that Lady Roxton's knickknacks must be of greater value than his aunt's. He enlisted St. John as a guard dog, promising him a share of the money for the items. 

Nigel had crept upstairs at one point during the party and had entered one of the parlors- not many knickknacks were to be found, but he did discover the Lady's writing desk and thus made off with her letter opener, concealed within his jacket's inside pocket. St. John, meanwhile, who had been keeping watch on the landing, at one point was knocked ass over teacups down the stairs. This was a point of dispute between the two- St. John maintained he was struck by an unknown assailant and Nigel held that he tripped and whacked his skull on the railing. Both remained open options in Marguerite's opinion. 

As they talked, she fought for control over her facial expressions. The sheer lunacy of the scheme itself, tempered with its lousy execution and her own momentary notion that _they_ possibly could have carried off the **real** burglary made her want to laugh, weep and scream furiously at the top of her lungs simultaneously.

_The moronic twits!_

They finished and nervously awaited her reaction. She stood up without warning, causing them to stumble to their feet. "I am leaving now," she said curtly. "But before I do, let me make something very clear to both of you. Do not, do NOT, under any circumstances, tell anyone of what you've done. Do you understand? Right now, they don't know it's missing and they probably won't even realize that it is- unless the two of you put your foot in it and lead them up your garden path- then it's goodbye auntie and hello constable," she spoke in a rapid monotone, glaring at both of them alternatively, with a tone that could chill the blood in one's veins. 

Their only response so far were audible gulps, their Adam's apples bobbing up and down in extreme nervousness. She turned and stalked off to the door, confident that her point had struck home. At the door, she turned back with a grin. "Don't worry- you can count on my discretion."

Both continued to remain dumb-struck, but Nigel finally got up the nerve to rush towards her. "I didn't mean to cause trouble, I just wanted to help my love, dearest"

"Oh, please, Nigel, spare me the theatrics tonight," Marguerite said wearily, waving him off. Nodding her head to St. John, she said dryly, "Pleasure seeing you again." And with that, she swept out of the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite had passed up the hansom cab awaiting her departure in favor of walking. Besides, her destination was not one where cabs generally trespassed; she was planning on returning to her safe-haven in the East End. She had realized the usefulness of such a location early in her 'career,' and the comfort of knowing there was more than one place to hide. It had been her saving grace numerous times and she had been firmly in the belief ever since that serial stories were not completely worthless; in fact, she occasionally picked up the odd copy of _The Strand_ still, looking for Doyle's accounts of the illustrious Mr. Holmes, the inventor of the bolt-hole. 

She only hoped, as she began to get closer to that part of town, that the brat wouldn't be continuing his vigil outside. She had come close to ruining a good pair of shoes coming out the back way to elude him earlier in the day. 

She brooded on the case at hand, none too pleased with herself. Someone out there had those jewels

As she turned down a dark corner, the realization hit her full force. More people knew of her new identity than she had planned. 'Jack,' whom she had always known by Specter, had known who she was masquerading as and at what hotel she stayed at. It was entirely possible that others had discovered this as well- others who had the means, the capabilities and the will to pull off a job such as this

She suddenly felt acutely aware of a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. At first, she was all too willing to shake it off- yet another token reminder of her days as a spy- reminiscent paranoia- until she heard soft footfalls behind her, as if someone was trying to be quiet and failing miserably. 

She kept at the same brisk pace but instead of veering off to the next right, the way to her flat, she went left instead, heading into the more notorious section of town. The footfalls followed and faster now, trying to keep up as she expertly maneuvered past alleys and open doorways, drunks and ladies of the night.

She had outwitted him, she knew, but that in and of itself was no good; she had to know who it was and what he wanted. She double-backed her trail on a parallel street, and after skirting through a tight space and divesting her hair of someone's hanging laundry, she found herself behind her pursuer.

The hunter becomes the hunted, wasn't that the popular phrase? She surveyed her quarry from behind, and as she slowly approached, she patted her purse to remind herself of her protection. The man himself was dressed in dark clothing- hard to tell the quality in the dark- and a dark cap. He was of medium height and build, but that proved little. 

He was reaching a corner and approached it slowly, as if he expected her to be waiting for him on the other side. Instead, she slowly withdrew a hat pin from her hair and then she let her steps forward resound in the night air. He whirled around in surprise but before he could speak, she had him up against the wall with the metal tip at his throat. 

"Looking for someone?" she whispered dangerously, pressing the sharp point ever so close to his jugular.

"Baroness," he managed, his eyes warily watching her hand poised to strike. He spoke with the barest hint of a German accent and the eyes that looked up at hers were not unfamiliar. 

"What do you want?" she hissed.

"Your presence is requested," he said formally, beads of sweat forming on his brow. She raised her eyebrow. "I was sent to take you to him- no weapons, no weapons!" he ended more anxiously, as the hat pin began to draw blood.

Marguerite slowly withdrew her hold on him, and stepping back, she replaced the pin in her hair, her eyes never leaving his face. "Schroeder, you never were good at sneaking up on people," she said with a wry smile as he tried to recover his composure. 

He gingerly touched his neck and drew back his fingers to see the tiny flecks of blood that she had drawn. She bared her teeth in a smile as a way of reply to this gesture. "Lead on, then," she ordered and followed him into the night. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Schroeder had led her to what she had assumed was an abandoned warehouse. Upon entering the building through a half-boarded up side entrance, she realized how wrong she was. She should have known though. She should have known about a lot of things.

Schroeder was one of the many top level German spies known to Parsifal in the days of the war. He spoke English very well, almost completely free of any accent, and had worked in the British Communications Offices- intercepting British messages for the Germans. He was a poet and a romantic, harmless really, just a patriotic intellectual who had been recruited by chance. It now seemed that Schroeder had been reduced to the demeaning status of a messenger boy for one of the more powerful individuals in the German spy ring operating in England.

Her second surprise of the evening came when she entered the lushly decorated office, formerly of the foreman of the factory, she supposed, without the trimmings. And the trimmings were extensive- a polished mahogany desk, a sofa piled high with pillows, two elaborately carved chairs, Persian carpets covering up the rickety floorboards, a side bar cart topped with glasses and bottles of varying sizes, a newly hung crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling, and a portrait of the Field Marshall on the wall. 

The occupant of the chair behind the desk was also an old acquaintance. His name was Karl von Hotzendorff, the son of the Field Marshall whose mustached face hung on the wall. 

"You've been promoted," she remarked as a way of greeting.

"Baroness von Helsing, you grow in beauty every time we meet," he said gallantly, rising and kissing her hand. **His** accent was very noticeable. Karl was never very intelligent though he had made powerful friends in the upper echelons of command- most due to his father's influence. She had met Conrad von Hotzendorff only once, at a officer's dinner in Berlin that she had attended with the head of the Secret Police, and besides being predictably worse-for-the-wear drink-wise, she had found him hotheaded, temperamental and conceited. His son, unfortunately, possessed much of his father's traits. It now appeared as though he was in charge of operations here- a considerable step up from his former position as secretary to the head of Secret Police.

"Not that I wish to deprive you of your view, Karl, but is this meeting necessary? The war's over, you know," she said, dropping elegantly into one of the chairs and making a show of yawning.

His countenance darkened, making Marguerite sit up a bit straighter in her chair. The man was a fool but he had a temper, not to mention a considerable reputation for violence. Best not irritate him, she reminded herself. 

"No- it is not," he said through clenched teeth.

Marguerite raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. He's more unstable than I thought, she mused.

He got up and began to walk around the room. "The fighting may be finished, but the war is not. The motherland's honor will be restored."

"I take it you've decided not to let bygones be bygones?" she remarked wryly.

"Not just I, Baroness, and you would do well to remember that," he replied with a sneer. "My superiors still have interests in this country and I have my orders," he stopped to rest in front of his desk and leaned back against it. "As do you, my dear."

Her eyes widened in shock but she pressed her lips together to stifle the curses hovering so near the surface. She composedly contemplated the finish on the mahogany desk before she raised her eyes to his and spoke in a cool, clear voice. "How can I be expected to do anything? The British consider their victory complete. Most of their employees have been demobbed already."

His nostrils flared in annoyance. "You will follow your orders, Baroness. Or you know what follows," he threatened, returning to the other side of the desk. 

Marguerite licked her lips ever so slowly as his back was turned. She did so hate those vague death threats. And with Karl at the helm, she had no compunction about admitting she was terrified if he ever got the chance to make good on it; his experimentations with torture methods during the war had granted him a certain reputation, which he, in his twisted way, was absurdly proud of. 

"And what is the mission?" she asked.

He responded with a grin and began to shuffle through the papers on the desk, until he found a telegram from Berlin and passed it to her.

It read: BARONESS TO FIND ALICE IN WONDERLAND STOP ACQUIRE AT ONCE AND FORWARD TO BERLIN STOP UTMOST SECRECY STOP HIMMELFAHRTS KOMMANDO STOP.

Marguerite's hand was trembling ever so slightly by the time she had finished. The day continued to get more and more bizarre. The telegram, signed by the chief of the Secret Police himself, made absolutely no sense. Why should the Germans need her to get a copy of Alice in Wonderland? Last time she was in Berlin, she was pretty sure they had bookstores left in the city- why label the mission top secret? The last line chilled her blood; cynically classified as a "Journey to Heaven" mission, this little shopping excursion was expected to have a very slim chance of survival.

She looked up questioningly at Karl who stared back at her blankly. She handed him back the telegram. "I take it this was all that was sent?"

He nodded, extracting a lighter from a desk drawer. "I have no further instructions. You are to bring the book back here in three days for shipment. If not" he trailed off threateningly as he set fire to the paper and with a wave of his free hand, Schroeder reappeared in the room to escort her out.

"Auf wiedersehen, Karl," she said with one of her best scowls, rising and following his secretary out. Karl did not look up but merely watched captivated as the ends of the paper began to curl as it burned black in his ashtray.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite had returned to the flat and spent a mostly sleepless night there, smoking cigarette after cigarette in annoyance, confusion and anxiety. She didn't know what to do- she, of all people, was completely without a plan of attack. The past thirty six hours were becoming more and more a blur the more she thought about them. Oddly enough, she found herself thinking more and more about the Roxton household and its handsome master. 

Viciously stubbing out another cigarette, she scolded herself. That's all you can think about? Lusting after a Lord? Your mark is gone and you're getting the blame, a reporter's asking questions, two idiots are screwing things up, Specter and MI5 is still bothering with you, a brat wants your tutelage, Karl just assigned you a mission, Xian's men can still be following you all things that have to be dealt with and fast. Not green eyes, or long brown hair that curls ever so slightly at the ends, or a tall, lean, muscular body 

She scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and sighing, took a long look at herself in the cracked mirror above a small bureau she kept. She thought she looked as strained as she felt, her eyes getting red from lack of sleep and smoke. 

She went over to the window, dark with grime. With a spare handkerchief, she rubbed away a small circle to reveal the first light of dawn. Turning slowly, she idly glanced around the room for where she had tossed her hat. After finding it in a corner, she secured it in place and smoothing out her dress and quickly checking the mirror again, she determined she was suitable to be seen. She needed to return to the Ritz, clean up, take a long, luxurious bath and treat herself to some of their lovely, buttery scones before she entangled herself any further. 

She left the room and using one of her lockpicks from her purse, relocked the flat door. Why pay for a room when you can simply break into one? Replacing the pick, she quietly exited the building, passing on her way out one very asleep would-be purse snatcher.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Ritz Hotel, Just after Dawn

Lord John Roxton, too, was sound asleep, curled up very uncomfortably in an armchair in the Ritz lobby. He had first arrived at the Ritz late the previous evening looking for the elusive and mysterious Miss Krux. The concierge had graciously informed him that she was not in at present and would he care to wait?

So wait he did. Through a late dinner, after dinner drinks, and a nightcap, he waited, badgering the desk and scaring the porters with menacing glares. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since the moment their eyes had met across that crowded parlor room. Those haunting grey eyes Frustrate with anger, at her, at his own desire, at the brash robbery of his home, he bellowed at every member of the hotel staff he came into contact with. No one knew where she was or when she would be returning. 

He knew she would come back and when she did, he'd want some answers. He had spoken with the reporter Malone late in the afternoon and somehow, it served only to make him more certain that she had somehow perpetrated this crime. Malone had wished him luck with trying to get her to confess; Roxton had to admit he would need it, especially after his near miss the night before. He hadn't slept a wink after what he considered, his only brush with death on the homeland.

He paced and he smoked and he read the evening papers. She didn't come. 

Eventually he had ended up in his current position, and with the porters gradually acquainted with his temper all evening, they decided it was best to let him be, for fear of his wrath. He slept fitfully, every once in a while awaking with a jerk and scanning around the lobby as if a predator were stalking him nearby. (This caused the employees of the hotel to become even more terrified of him though they were not permitted comment, as he did rank as a Lord, as the concierge often reminded them. The concierge himself tried to take cover in the back offices for as long as possible. He was considerably uncomfortable being surveyed by the man known as The Great White Hunter as some sort of foe to knock down. He asked the cleaning ladies to be extra quiet lest he startle again and make a lunge for their throats.)

It was not long after dawn when he awoke with a start once again. Lowering himself back into the chair and readjusting his limbs in what had become an on-going quest for comfort, he lazily looked towards the doorway. 

And there she was. Strolling in without a care in the world going to the desk to ask for messages the concierge pointed over in his direction. One sleek eyebrow went heavenward as she turned and stared at him, expressionless. 

Going red in the face, he scrambled to his feet and endeavored to smooth out his now-wrinkled clothes. His tie was well, who knows what had happened to the blasted tie, and his hat now had quite a large dent in it, from masquerading as a pillow. 

She marched right up to him, confident as ever. "I'm sorry, my lord, did I wake you?" she asked sweetly, an impish grin spreading on her face.

"No, not at all," he said confidently, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back. He looked her up and down, wondering where the hell she had been all night. Had she a lover? His stomach lurched oddly at that thought, as he refocused his attention on her. He'd need all his wits if he was to get out of this unscathed.

"Visiting a paramour, are we?" she said with a chuckle as she began to move towards the elevator.

He followed her, jaw set firm. Fine, he thought, we'll play your little game. For now. "Wrong again. Was looking for you, actually," he replied with a grin as he stepped onto the elevator with her.

"Floor, miss?" the operator asked.

"Five," she said with annoyance, flaring her nostrils at Roxton.

They stood in tense silence, staring one another down as the floors slowly passed. The operator boy had begun to get very nervous and let out a sigh of relief as they came upon their destination. "Fifth- er- floor," he said, his voice cracking.

"Looks like this is our stop," Roxton whispered in her ear, loud enough for the boy to hear. He then smiled at the lad, who was predictably red in the face, and placing a hand on the small of her back, pushed Marguerite out of the elevator before him.

She stomped ahead of his grasp and wheeled around, giving him an angry glare before marching fast down the hallway. "Okay, you've had your fun. What do you want, Roxton? Reimbursement for your picture frame?" 

She had stopped at her suite door and was fishing for her latch key in her purse when he grabbed her arm. "I want what is mine," he growled.

She looked at the hand on her arm and slowly drew her gaze up to his face, now very close to hers. "If I were you, I'd move that hand pretty damn fast," she threatened in a slow, taut voice. 

He removed it upon seeing her face. Who knew what the woman was capable of? He did not, however, remove himself completely, but kept the intimate space between them. He could feel stray hairs from her curls on his face, as she had shifted to open the door to the room.

"Why don't we continue this conversation someplace more sensible?" she remarked critically and held the door open for him to pass through.

"Nice," he commented, looking around the suite. "Yours or someone else's?" he said cuttingly.

"Mine, thank you. Sorry to disappoint you, Roxton, but you'll find nothing of yours here," she remarked flippantly, closing the door and dropping her purse on a side table. She moved to the window to close the drapes, her usual precaution - even when it was only her in the room. Especially then.

"Nothing of my mother's either?" he asked, lowering himself into a plush chair. 

"No. Now before you make yourself too comfortable, go away." She out thrust a finger towards the door. 

"No, I find this chair quite serviceable, thanks. Where are they, Miss Krux?"

"I don't know what you're talking about and even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you." She leaned up against the sofa and crossed her arms in front of her, fairly radiating annoyance and obstinacy.

"Sure you weren't getting a head start on dwindling the family fortune, my dear?" he asked rising and moving towards her.

She didn't move but answered him in the same sickeningly sweet tone. "And just what are you implying, Lord Roxton? That I'm some sort of master thief who whisked your mother's jewels out from under your nose?"

He stood toe to toe with her now and looked down on her. "Master thief? No, I wouldn't say that. An amateur, perhaps. Where are they, Marguerite?" he said in a dangerously soft voice.

Keeping her arms still firmly crossed, she looked up at him, fighting tooth and nail to keep an implacable, unreadable expression on her face. One hell of an insult coupled with his stifling closeness it was almost too much. She changed tack and let a small smile play on her lips.

"You don't really think I took anything, do you, Roxton?" she replied with her trademark purr, running a light finger up and down his right lapel. "You wouldn't listen to a self-serving journalist over the real thing, would you? Over me?" Her lips now hovered desperately close to his as she arched her head up. 

"I wouldn't believe you if you said the sun rose in the east," he replied huskily.

Two well placed hands and an angry shove sent him reeling backwards. "I will not have accusations flung at me in my home. Leave now, or I will call the concierge!"

"I'm not leaving until you produce my mother's jewels!"

"You must have me confused with someone else, Lord Roxton. And if you do not leave this room, I will have some large porters drag you out," she said, her hand picking up the telephone receiver.

"Maybe you're right. Yesterday I wouldn't have known you from Adam. But as sure as I'm standing here, I know that you're not what you're claiming to be. And I'm going to find out what you're hiding. Good day, Miss Krux."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He left under his own steam, though she had known that her threat to call the front desk was toothless anyhow. None of the porters were that physically intimidating and who knew if they would have actually done it.

Her skin still tingled where his hand had gripped her arm. She didn't think she would bruise, but she felt like she had been singed with a red hot poker. If I'm not careful, that man could be the end of me, she mused, before lowering herself into a deserved bubble bath.

As she soaked, she found herself thinking of him again. As the steam and the water wrapped around her, she closed her eyes and thought of his breath ever so light on her cheek as she opened the door to the suite and of the fullness of his lips that had been so tantalizingly close. 

God, I hope these things get wrapped up fast, she pleaded, mindful of her other obligations. I don't know how much longer I can stand those long glances without doing something foolish.

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TBC 

Again, my apologies for not updating faster. Looking ahead, I've suddenly realized that this story really is a lot more complicated than it is on my little plot diagram. More for you to read- lots more for me to write. 

Please read and review it does a body good. :P


	7. Following the Rabbit's Trail

Devil May Care Part 7/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes, see parts 1 - 6.

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" ' but then I wonder what Latitude or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had not the slightest idea what Latitude was, or Longitude either, but she thought they were nice grand words to say." ~ Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

"_Elbow: _What is't your worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?

__

Escalus: Truly, Officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldest discover if thou couldest, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are." ~ Measure for Measure, William Shakespeare

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A Tea Shoppe, Later that Morning

Roxton finished the dregs of his second cup of tea before setting the porcelain cup down rather hard in its saucer, causing the old woman at the next table over to shoot him a disapproving glare. He missed this, however, because he was intent upon the window in front of him. Rather, the view from the window: the front doors of the Ritz Hotel.

He was determined to figure out the mystery behind Miss Marguerite Krux. She may not have stolen his mother's jewels (though he would not be surprised if she had her hands in it) but there was definitely something about her that smacked of untrustworthiness. She was up to something- those eyes of hers didn't miss much, he wagered- and whatever it was, it couldn't be good.

He hailed the waitress again and ordered another cup of tea. This was going to require strategy and cunning, he mused, absently rubbing his knuckles thoughtfully. He didn't doubt that if he was not careful, she would notice his presence. He only hoped he could stalk his prey with more success than that of their first meeting, which still rankled him. His thoughts flew back to the drawing room that night, of her svelte body draped with crimson silk, her black curls trailing down her back and those eyes never turning away from his.

The woman had guts, wits, and one hell of an aim. His kind of woman. And yet, here he was, conjuring up visions of treachery that she may have perpetrated throughout the English countryside when he should be doing everything that he could to woo her, to make her his bride. And yet there was that remark about those dead husbands

He nodded curtly as the waitress returned with his tea and scalded his mouth with a deep swallow. The whole situation was intolerable! If she wasn't bad enough, he had to remain in London until the situation with his mother was resolved, taking more time away from his hunting grounds at Avebury. If he had any sense, he thought sorely, he would just go to the Zoological Society, petition for an expedition, and get as far away from London and Miss Krux as humanly possible and return to hunting prey the way he was used to. 

He raised the cup to his lips once more, but the tea never made it to his lips. In mere seconds, the cup was returned to its saucer, a few coins tossed unceremoniously onto the table, and Roxton was out the door. 

Miss Krux had just left the hotel.

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Marguerite stole an upward glance at the sky as she hurried on to her destination. It was, as usual, overcast but she knew that it would rain later. She only hoped that by then, she was indoors. One of the things she truly detested about London was the lack of sunshine. It really could be a frightfully dreary city. Especially with the rain impending, she mused, aware of her predominately gray surroundings. 

She was on her way to Hyde Park. By the time she had finished soaking, she had realized that the only person who could possibly inform her of the importance of an Alice In Wonderland book to the Germans was Specter. It infuriated her that she had to turn to him, of all people, because it practically assured that now she must help with his dirty work but it could not be helped. 

It wasn't until she finished breakfast, though, that a sneaking suspicion fell upon her. It was possible that there was a chance, however slight, that both Specter and the Germans were after the same thing. Specter had mentioned papers- the Germans, a book. Not entirely disparate items. It would also explain why Specter had thought it necessary to route her, specifically, out, as the operative already known to the enemy, Baroness von Helsing. 

She continued on, using a deceptively casual stride that covered more ground than it let on, and made her way into the park. She spotted him easily enough, sitting on the bench where they had met several times before, reading a newspaper with his half-glasses on. He had spotted her, of course and had acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head as he turned a page.

She slowed her steps, aware that the Lord following her had taken up occupancy behind some trees that lined the path. He was light on his feet, she'd give him that, but really! Some great hunter! She had spotted him barely two blocks away from the hotel. Oh well, she thought recklessly, let him think I'm indulging in some romantic affair with a married man or some such other rot. He'd believe me capable of such indiscretion anyhow. 

She sat down on the bench next to Specter but did not look at him. Instead, she opened her purse and began to rummage through it as if she had stopped to look for something.

"At last. I expected you an hour ago," he said quietly, also not looking at her, his face hid behind his paper.

She did not respond immediately, but rather took stock of her surroundings and her sometimes superior. The park had not changed much since their first meeting there but they had. She studied his profile from her peripheral view and couldn't remember a time she had seen him look every inch of his age. More gray intermingled with his black hair, an addition which she had previously thought gave him a more distinguished look, today made him appear more tired and wizened. Yes, quite a change. She wondered idly if the same principle could apply to her before plunging into the business at hand.

"The Baroness had callers yesterday," she said bluntly, in the same quiet voice. She extracted her cigarette case and a lighter from her purse. She noticed the hands holding the paper clenched ever so slightly at this comment. "Looking for a book," she added, placing a thin cigarette between her lips.

He turned the page with such alacrity that it tore. Hmmm he has to know what this is about if he's so riled up about it, Marguerite thought. She lit her cigarette as calmly as she could, her pent-up curiosity burning on her lips. Instead, she wittily remarked, "Careful. I've got a suitor who's watching all this with interest."

The paper resumed its previous casual and upright position. "Yes. Lord Roxton, I see. Did you take his mother's jewels?"

"No."

"Pity." He had replied in the same flat tone as before, with only a slight tremor to his voice. Though slight, it was enough to let Marguerite know he was sufficiently rattled. Specter was known for being cool as ice. Something of great import was definitely going on. For him to not take part in their typical idle bantering, it would have to be. "What book?"

"Alice in Wonderland," she replied, taking a drag of her cigarette.

A muttered oath came from behind the newspaper. 

"I take it it's not just because they can't find a suitable translation?" Marguerite said, unable to control her sharp tongue. She couldn't see his face clearly, but she knew he was glaring at her for this comment. Then she continued in a more neutral tone, "I also take it that the book is bound with the missing papers?"

He did not respond. He didn't have to. As soon as she had spoken the words, she knew she was right.

They sat in silence for a few moments more, Marguerite watching the end of her cigarette slowly burn away, all too well aware that a Lord was watching her every move from behind an oak tree not a fifty yards away, and Specter carefully hidden behind the _London Times_.

After clearing his throat loudly, he continued in his inaudible, soft voice. "During the war, the office developed a cipher for communications, one that the Germans couldn't break."

"A cipher? You mean a, a code?" she asked rather breathlessly. No wonder he was so out of sorts.

He nodded imperceptibly. "Most ciphers up to that point had been based on the sundial or wheel-"

"Like a key?" She had remembered seeing translators work out the codes, turning handmade circles where the letters matched up to rework into jumbles of nonsense.

Again the barely noticeable nod. "Also rather simple ones that involved the regular substitution of letters."

"Anagrams. But they're certainly not unbreakable, I mean, school children can play word games equal to that."

"Exactly. Which is why we came up with a different cipher. Alice is a story every Englishman knows, a bestseller, a great distraction from war"

"It's a codebook?" she hissed incredulously. "You lost a codebook!"

"Well, we didn't exactly hand it over to with the compliments of His Majesty!" he hissed back, this time his temper clearly evident. He took a deep breath and flipped another page of his paper, shaking out the wrinkles with two short, harsh flicks of the wrist. "The cipher was based on the book. Certain underlined words on specified pages, confused grammar, puns on puns, fantastical names, multiple keywords-- it was the perfect ruse." His tone had become almost reverent as he spoke of it. 

"Underlining it was annotated, you mean? So they don't just need a copy of the text- they need one of our copies to decode it?" she ventured.

"We have the other ones in a secure location. This one managed to disappear before we got it there. And if the Baroness' friends are looking for it, the only consolation the War Office has is that the Germans don't have it."

"Yet. Not much of a consolation- a free agent," she pursed her lips distastefully.

"Whoever pulled it had clearance, rank. We're looking at a triad of very influential and highly decorated generals. Not exactly a walk in the park for the investigative committee."

She grimaced but remained silent, listening carefully to his information.

"Names will be in the cigarette pack," he said, and tapped his foot. Looking down, she saw a crumpled box on the ground. "Find out who has it and get it back- by whatever means necessary. We can't afford to have anyone break that code. Names, locations, dates. If they got it to proper translators"

"I get it, alright?" she said, slowly swallowing the bad taste in her mouth. "Look- getting you information, forwarding you what I was given is one thing but deliberately planning to stage a burglary of this sort"

"Wasn't in the brochure? Sorry," he said unrepentantly. "Unfortunately, you're the only one we can trust. Everyone else is demobbed or possibly working under a general's influence. Besides, someone with your extracurricular activities should find it within their capabilities." He cleared his throat before continuing. "You will, of course, be appropriately compensated."

"Bloody well better, or I'll be reading Karl bedtime stories about the Knave of Hearts who stole the tarts." 

The paper shook violently again. "Calm down. You're starting to frighten away the birds. Not to mention peak a certain individual's interest," she said, rolling her eyes towards Roxton's hiding place.

The paper slowly lowered, revealing his slightly amused features. He leveled a serious look at the path, over his half-glasses. "You didn't take his mother's jewels?" he asked again, his amusement evident in his tone.

"Not for lack of trying."

"That's my girl. Calculating to the last," he said as a quick smile graced his features. He surreptitiously glanced over at Roxton who was watching the whole scene with great interest. As he began to fold up the newspaper, he continued with a slight nod at their onlooker, "When I am to wish you joy?"

"If you mean me, whenever you wish. If you mean to that insufferable-" Marguerite began, her voice slowly becoming audible as her anger grew.

He interrupted her smoothly, "Now who needs to calm down?" With a half-hidden wink, he tucked the paper under his arm and proceeded to stroll down the path she had just come up, as if he hadn't a care in the world. 

She watched him go with idle interest, and continued to sit complacently. Noticing the sad state of her temporarily forgotten cigarette, she threw it to the ground and snubbed it out with a twist of her foot. Nudging the crumpled box with the same foot, she inconspicuously bent over, and picked it up, concealing it within her purse as she brushed imaginary lint off of her dress with the other hand that was conspicuously in view of Roxton. 

Rising slowly, she set off further in the direction in which she had been going, determined to lose him by the time she reached the East End.

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Marguerite entered the apartment building feeling rather pleased with herself. She had gotten leads out of Specter, had managed to lose Roxton, and all before tea time. I should get an early start more often, she thought to herself. Rounding the stairs, she stopped short. Sitting there on the landing was Tom.

"What are you doing here?" she asked grumpily and pushed her way around him.

"You **said** you'd teach me. So I'm 'ere and ready ta learn."

"I'm busy, brat," she said with a sigh, stopping at her door.

"Ya gonna pick it?" he asked eagerly, looking back and forth between her and the lock. "The landlady done tol' me that no one lives in that there room- but noises, like creaks, she 'ears it all the time. Ghosts, she says."

"Hmm," she said, raising an eyebrow at her protégé, while digging around in her bag for her picks.

"Aw, come 'un! You promised!" he whined, stamping his feet.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" she muttered, throwing her head back and tossing a 'why me?' glare to the heavens. "Fine. Come over here and watch."

He studied her hands intently as they maneuvered the lock with two thin pieces of steel. It clicked and the door opened.

"Coo," he breathed and followed her inside. He surveyed the plain room and pounced on the bed, causing the mattress to creak in protest. "So."

"So," she replied non-committedly. 

"What's your name- you never told me," he said, watching her extract her widow's attire from the bureau.

"I never did- and I never will, brat."

"Aw, come 'un, I dun tol' ya mine!" he whined.

"That you did."

She began laying out her clothes, and began to carefully take off her hat and coat.

He looked at her, then to the black dress and back to her again. His eyes lit up and he bounced again on the bed. "You're the Lady! Aren' ya? The Old Man's Lady!"

She whirled around to look at him, her eyes wide. What the hell? Then she took a deep breath and told herself to calm down- he's just a street urchin, he knows the street chatter, nothing else.

"They say ya killed ya husband somethin' terrible. Kitchen knife slashed 'im through n' through. Ruined all yer clothes with the blood so ya only has the one dress left," he chattered on merrily, very pleased with his discovery. 

She allowed herself a slight smile and nodded her head. Whatever will they come up with next? The last rumor she had heard concerning her favored persona was that her lover had poisoned her late husband and then disappeared, leaving her to constantly search for him. People's willingness to twist reality into their own favored account of "the facts" would never cease to amaze her, and never cease to be a handy asset.

"You are going to need to stand in that corner," she said archly, pointing across the room.

Tom smirked and obediently did as he was told. Facing the wall, he shook his head, muttering under his breath. "The Lady dun't believe it **me** and the _Lady_!"

Marguerite quickly donned her outfit and coughed loudly as a signal for him to turn around, which of course, he did fast as lightning.

"So what ya gonna teach me next? Huh? Where we going?"

She was tucking in her gloves and sighed heavily. How did I ever get stuck with babysitting duty? "You are not going anywhere with me," she said firmly.

"Oh come 'UN, please? I promise not to get into any trubble, I **swear** on a stack of bloody Bibles! Pleeeease?"

"You want a lesson? Fine. Lesson One: Never underestimate the value of having people believe the worse of you. If they think you're an idiot, or a lowlife, or a harlot- let them. It's better than them knowing the truth."

"You mean, like if you had just tol' me that you was a starcher than you wudn't have to teach me?"

She glared at him. Damn brat was right. Learned fast for a street rat. Could end up being useful. But not tonight.

He rocked back on his heels confidently, a smug smile on his grimy face. "Dun tol' ya I'm no flimp."

She faced the window and looked out to the street below through the small circle she had cleaned earlier that day. And then she cursed underneath her breath in lurid Mittelhocdeutsch. It was him! John Bloody Roxton, pretending to buy a handkerchief from a vendor across the street.

"You want something to do?" she asked abstractedly, turning from the window to face the half cracked mirror on her bureau so she could adjust her hat properly.

Tom nodded vigorously.

"Go to the window." As he pressed his nose up to the glass, she continued. "See that man down there, bowler hat, tan suit?"

"Yeah- who's dat? A 'tective?"

"No- just someone I'd rather not meet for the next few days. I need you to steal his wallet. It'll be in the upper left pocket."

"Coo- sure! I've been practicing too- got it real smooth and I can do it without trippin' over me feet now!" he babbled proudly.

"No, no, no," she waved her hands in protest. "I need you to make sure he knows you took it."

"Wha?" Tom's nose wrinkled with confusion.

"I don't see what's so hard to understand. Take his wallet, make sure that he chases you for a while, then lose him. Fast." She quickly lowered the veil, upset that she had let concern tender those last remarks. Why should she give two figs about the brat? Let him get caught, why should she care?

"What about 'is wallet?" Tom asked, narrowing his eyes and stroking his chin as if he were considering a deal of monumental proportions.

"Take it, chuck it, I don't care!" she said impatiently, moving to the door. Motioning him to follow.

"You want me to distract 'im, huh?"

Gritting her teeth, she replied curtly, "Yes." The lad was too perceptive for his own good.

He nodded thoughtfully, as if he considered it worthy of his effort and flexing his fingers ostentatiously, exited the room. 

Marguerite watched from the window as Tom walked out onto the street and sidled up to the cart without drawing Roxton's attention. And then it happened. Like a dance she alone choreographed. Tom pinched his wallet, stumbling over the wheel of the handkerchief cart, Roxton was jarred, realized he'd been marked and went off in hot pursuit as Tom began a mad dash through the street-walkers.

Smiling to herself for a job well done, she left the room and walked quickly in the opposite direction, to the Old Man's shop, forgetting to relock the flat door.

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TBC


	8. Dangerous Pursuits

Devil May Care Part 8/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes, see parts 1 - 7.

Quick A/N: Sorry about the delay for this installment. Went on vacation and was nowhere near a computer for almost two weeks. Hope you enjoy only a few more delicious parts left I think 

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"You and I can be cruel because of ambition, lust, stupidity or ignorance. For [women] though Call it calculation, if you want. Or necessity. A defensive weapon, if you get my meaning. They're bad because they gamble everything, and because they need to survive. That's why they fight to the death when they fight." ~ Nino Palermo, The Nautical Chart, Arturo Perez-Reverte

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The Old Man's Shop

Marguerite paced impatiently as she waited for him to appear. She had memorized the names in the cigarette pack on her way there, and had burned the crumpled piece of paper in a dark corner. The generals Specter had fingered were influential, it was true. One was a young upstart, just recently given his bars, and had a distaste for authority other than his own. On that reason alone was basis enough for Specter's people to suspect him. Marguerite, however, didn't think he was worth the effort. This was a planned attack, with more than petty ego at stake. 

The other two remained difficult to discern by name alone. One she had never heard of- a General Jefferies and the other's name was only vaguely familiar- General Tregarth- for what reasons, she couldn't recall. 

What she was certain of, though, was that if anyone knew of a book being sold to the highest bidder it would be the Old Man. Because that was a considerably more favorable subject to muse on, she contented herself with that thought before selecting a Chippendale chair in which to lower herself. What could be taking him! She swung her foot impatiently. How I hate waiting, she silently fumed.

A sly smile snuck onto her face as she recalled Roxton's surprised expression as Tom barreled into him. Oh, how she would have loved to see if he ever caught the little scamp! It had been perfectly delicious seeing him with that adorable expression of shock writ clear on his face- and all by her doing, well, mostly her doing, anyway. Oh, he was fun to play with, she'd give him that. Not to mention dangerously handsome

Marguerite then belatedly heard slight scuffling on the hardwood floor, coming from behind the blue curtain. Cursing herself for getting lost on such frivolous thoughts, she got up and slowly and cautiously began to approach the back of the shop. The Old Man could move noiselessly through his shop, anytime of day or night. Something was not right. She should have known that it never took that long for him to wait on her.

Marguerite slowly pulled back the tattered curtain to see a dark clad figure dart out the back door of the shop. She impulsively moved forward to follow but tripped-- over the legs of the Old Man, who was on the floor, his left temple bleeding.

Regaining her steadiness, she knelt by his side. "What happened??" she asked, catching her breath. She lightly touched his hurt with her fingertips and assessed that he would be okay, though whoever had hit him had done so with more than a fist. At least he was conscious.

He winced in pain at her touch and shook off her hand to help him up. Using a fallen stool as leverage, he slowly rose to his feet unassisted, Marguerite slowly rising with him, a hand poised at his back should he fall.

"Not all customers are as courteous as the Lady," he grunted, swaying to an upright position.

She smirked at this and pointed sternly to a nearby chair. "Sit down, you old fool, before you fall down, and let your hurt be looked to."

He tried to shake his head and made a grimace at the pain the gesture caused. He settled for a glare yet obediently followed her order, muttering under his breath about how his shop was no longer his own.

She rolled her eyes as she searched the room for a clean cloth for his head. She had already discovered a pitcher of semi-clean water - it would have to do- but couldn't find a decent cloth anywhere. She was about to ask him for one when she turned to see him holding a white handkerchief, waving it ever so slightly between his fingertips.

"I should have known the instincts of a gentleman couldn't wholly be suppressed," she said, taking it from him.

"I know when I am matched against a greater foe," he countered haughtily.

"Is that what you were doing on the floor? Surrendering?" 

"They tend to stop hitting you if they think you're unconscious. Ruins the fun of it," he countered, his chin raised defiantly.

She smiled in reluctance. Men like him certainly were few and far between these days. No wonder I care about him. If he were fifty some odd years younger, I'd marry him for the genius he is.

"What did he want?" she asked over her shoulder, as she began to dampen his handkerchief with the water.

"Nothing of great importance."

She raised a questioning eyebrow at him, returning to his side to dab his bleeding temple. She said nothing, however, until he muttered an oath and continued, "A book."

Then it was her turn to curse and his to raise a brow.

"I take it you know something that I do not," he began as she looked away. "That is fine by me, Lady," he said gently, momentarily resting a gnarled hand on her forearm. "I am too old for such intrigues. I do not have it- and neither does he."

She half closed her eyes in relief and struggled to control her breathing, taking long measured breaths and forcing herself to focus on wiping the dried blood off his face. She could not divulge any information to the Old Man- she couldn't even reassure him that the man in black would not be back- not without endangering him even further. She felt awful enough as it is; she couldn't help but feel responsible for his newly acquired bump. Instead, she opted for a change of subject.

"Have the colors I asked for come in yet?"

"Madame's items have not appeared, in this shop or otherwise."

Damn, she thought. The Roxton jewels were still at large. Her disappointment must have been evident on her face, because the Old Man's expression softened again. 

"Do not lose hope, Lady. They will be found. Things like that do not stay hidden for long." He struggled to stand up and she lent him an arm for support. As soon as he got upright, he pushed her away and slowly walked over to a cupboard on the far wall. 

"You did, however, get a message." He fiddled with some keys at his belt and opened the cupboard. Peering inside, he extracted a small, folded piece of paper. He re-locked the cabinet and started back towards her. He placed it into her hands and closed both of his over hers.

"I grow tired, Lady. This is no way to end my days. I will still keep an old eye out for you, but if I am not here when next you come, do not be alarmed."

Her eyes widened as she glanced back and forth from the paper covered with his bony fingers to his face, weathered by time and showing his age. "But where will you go? What will you do?"

"Ah," he laid a finger aside of his nose and half closed his eyes. "No, no."

"Right, sorry. I forgot. No questions."

He held her gaze for a moment and smiled again. "You fear death. That is not surprising, everyone fears death, even I, and I am as old as the moors. But what you do not know is that it matters not when you go, that is not for us to decide, but how. I will not die in this filthy place," he said, grimacing at the floorboards. "I will be comfortable and content and that's more than most."

"I suppose when your time comes you'll be living in the lap of luxury and the better for it," she said, returning his smile. "I cannot think of anyone who deserves it more."

She could have sworn that his eyes became watery at this last statement of hers but then, she had always known that compared to him, she was an amateur. He released her hand and walked back towards the curtain, pulling it open.

"Well then, out you go. You've got what you came for and made a mess out of my things. Probably didn't put everything back where it belongs, neither. Come on then, out. Out you go," he chided her as she picked up her purse where she had dropped it and made her way back out into the front of the shop.

"Goodbye, my old friend. Take care."

He harrumphed and refused her extended hand. She smirked, affixed her veil and made her way to the door. Just as she was leaving, mixed with the sounds of the tingling bells on the door, she was certain she heard him mumble back, "And farewell to you, my friend."

Not that he would ever do something like that. Or that she would ever care that he spoke those words. After concealing the letter in her purse, however, she was forced to brush away some precipitation from her cheeks. London was ever so much a dreary city; it rained even when the sun was shining.

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The East End, Earlier that Day

Roxton felt the wind being knocked out of his lungs. Tiny hands on his chest fingered his vest pocket and pushed him aside. He was being robbed! He saw a dirty child dart off, expertly dodging his way through the crowd. 

"Stop, thief!" he bellowed as he began his pursuit. He ran down the sidewalk, trying to not lose sight of the kid, who was weaving through the throng with practiced ease.

"Stop that boy!" he yelled again. "Somebody stop that boy!" He continued to run, falling behind a little after a difficult maneuver around a woman carrying a multitude of parcels. They had turned the corner and the crowds were thinning out.

Just then, Roxton saw a tall man with large whiskers plant himself in front of the boy. "Aye've got 'im, gov'nor!" he bellowed as he caught the kid by the collar.

The kid struggled violently, losing his tattered brown cap, kicking and clawing at the man. Finally, he bit him, causing the man to cry out in pain as he began to curse luridly to the dismay of the ladies on the street.

But the delay had helped Roxton to catch up and now on more open ground, he easily ran the child down. 

Grabbing his collar, Roxton pulled him to a stop. "Now, just where do you think you're going?"

The kid looked up at him, and Roxton was puzzled to see the curiosity writ on his face. It was almost as if he were being studied for some unknown reason.

The lone constable who had heard Roxton's cries, finally caught up, huffing and puffing to a stop. "What's all this er _cough_ then?"

"No trouble now, officer," Roxton said complacently, letting go of the kid and brushing off his collar. "This young gentleman was just about to return my wallet. Weren't you?" he leveled a look at the boy.

"Yes, sir. That's right, sir." The boy nodded vigorously and immediately reproduced the wallet. "Not a farthing missin,' make no mistake."

"So you took his wallet, eh?" The constable fumbled for the boy's collar and hauled him up on his toes. "Bloody little scamp." Squinting with one eye while opening the other to its fullest extent, he eyed the boy before continuing, "Yous Free Willy's kid, ain't ya?"

The kid nodded and the constable grunted. "No good street rats. We'll see if the Hall can mend your ways, eh?"

The kid began to protest and squirm, kicking his legs violently. The Hall was an orphanage of the East End, well known for its disreputable caretakers. 

"No, no, no! Don't send me there!! NO!" the kid wailed, and the constable slapped him across the face, telling him to be quiet.

Roxton, who knew many a man in his circle who had had a bastard sent there and never be heard from again, suddenly sympathized with the kid as his anger at the constable rose. He extracted the kid from the constable's grasp.

"You dare to strike a child?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but yous seems like too much of a gentleman to know about the workings of these here parts. 'E's the son of a thief, and no better than the rest of the riff raff millin' about. E'll be just fine at the Hall"

"And I am ordering you to release him. I've recovered my property and he won't cause anymore trouble, will you, my boy?"

The kid nodded an emphatic no.

"See. I would hate to have to bring up your brutalization of children with your superiors. Good morning, officer," he finished with an edge to his voice and marched off in the opposite direction with the kid.

After a while, they slowed their pace and the kid spoke up. "Is 'e still there?"

"No, the constable is long gone." Roxton waited a beat while giving the kid an askance look. "So what's your name?"

"Tom."

"Have any other family, Tom? A brother, an uncle"

"They're all dead, sir," Tom replied in a quiet voice.

"I'm sorry. So where do you live?" Roxton asked, looking away at the shop windows lining the opposite side of the street.

"I used to live at the top of Tottenham Court Road, but Aye got better digs now."

"Where?"

Tom shook his head. "Can't tell ya that, sir. Th' boss wouldn't like it."

Roxton looked down at the child with disbelief. He certainly was a cocky little kid, that was for sure. Spying a pub on a nearby corner, he pointed to it. "Have you eaten lately?"

"Nah, the best scraps are in the even-" Tom began to chatter but then realized Roxton's intent. "Oh no, sir, Aye couln't. You've been kind enough to me already- Aye can't"

"Consider it penance. Come on," he said, walking towards the door and motioning for Tom to follow.

They soon found a table and ordered, the pair conspicuously out of place in the pub, as most of the customers were middle-age men of the East End. Their plates came quickly as the other customers were mostly ordering drinks and not food.

Roxton watched in wide-eyed fascination as Tom's heavily filled plate began to clear away. The lad had quite the stomach. He was working on the rest of Roxton's food when Roxton finally decided to try again.

"So why can't you tell me where you live? I just want to make sure you get home okay."

"Cause" Tom replied through a mouthful of food. "She wouldn't like it." As he swallowed, his eyes opened wide. He wasn't supposed to have said that.

Roxton sat back with surprise. "Marguerite? She set this up?" he clenched his fist on his knees.

Tom was just as surprised at this statement as Roxton was at his own. "Is that 'er name? Marguerite?"

Both man and boy stared at each other for a long moment before laughing. "I suppose we both must take our hat off to the lady for this round," Roxton mused.

"That's her! She's the Lady of the East End!"

"I'm sorry?"

"The Lady. Dressed all in black, the widow that's done in 'er 'usbands! What did you call 'er? Marguerite," Tom experimented, rolling the name off his tongue as he began to finish up the plate in front of him.

So she wasn't kidding about the murdered husbands. A shiver went down his spine. The woman was dangerous, ingenious, and probably now, long gone. But now, he would get a leg up. And about time too. He detested playing the fool in this game of hers. He was determined to make sure that the next time they met, the only surprises would be for her.

He and Tom sat for half an hour longer before they went their separate ways, each feeling very satisfied, but for considerably different reasons.

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Marguerite had paused in a well-hidden alley to read her note. It had been typewritten and then folded three times over with precision. It was very short and very informative.

She extracted her matches from her purse again and lit a corner of the creased white paper. The paper burned, eventually blurring out the words. It had contained simply a letter T and then under it, an address: 3647 Woburn Square. 

She was certain it wasn't Specter and it wasn't Karl. Then who would alert her to the fact that General Tregarth lived at that address- one of her two remaining suspects? 

She walked up and down the streets, trying to wrap her head around her new circumstances. It could be someone with inside information- maybe the same traitor, now repentant. But then, he'd have to fake his death pretty convincingly to have Specter and MI5 fooled. On the other hand, it could be a trap and if she followed through on it, she would most likely be as good as dead if she wasn't prepared.

She had walked herself back to the Ritz as sun dipped closer to the horizon. Might as well change my clothes, she mused. Can't go a-visiting to the General dressed like this. 

She passed through the lobby unapproached and made it to the comparative safety of her suite. She dropped her purse on the couch and slowly began unbuttoning her jacket as she moved into the next room. Opening up her closet, she squinted thoughtfully at its contents before removing two dresses and alternatively holding them up to the light. Red or blue?

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt, she remembered. Almost two weeks ago at Lady Farcourt's party an officer with a ruby encrusted monocle two days ago at the Roxton house talking about camels in India General Tregarth. 

The red dress fluttered to the floor out of her grasp as she stood gaping. How could I have been so foolish! How could I not have remembered! Stupid, stupid girl, she chided herself. Of course he was keeping tabs on her the whole time. Otherwise how could it have been planned so elaborately?

Almost without thinking, she dressed quickly, donning the blue dress and securing the appropriate tools of her trade to her knickers- spare lock picks, a small knife, a tiny "lady's" pistol. With that, she grabbed her purse, double checked the ammunition supply in her larger gun (full, thankfully), and hurried downstairs to catch a cab to take her to 3647 Woburn Street.

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3647 Woburn Street. Evening

Marguerite looked up at the large townhouse from the window of the hansom cab, involuntarily shivering. She paid the driver his dues and watched him drive off, the wind blowing hair free from her perfect coil at the back of her neck. She mounted the stone steps and rang the bell, a mixture of impatience and nervousness causing her to dart her eyes up and down the street and tap her foot in regular time. She shot another glance upward, this time at the sky. Clouds were gathering- a storm was on its way. She silently hoped that she would be finished and safe and sound at the Ritz before the downpour came.

The door opened to reveal a small, older woman dressed in typical black with a crisp white apron. "Yes'm?"

She stepped over the threshold uninvited. "Miss Marguerite Krux to see General Tregarth." She ignored servant's expostulations at her boldness and began to take off her hat. "I believe he is expecting me."

The servant went off in a huff, presumably to alert her master, while a butler materialized from her left to take her outer coat with her hat. Marguerite idly scanned a hideous Turner painting on the wall until the woman returned, in a less angry mood it seemed, but still disposed to dislike her.

"This way, mum," she said simply and turned to have Marguerite follow her down the hall to the second room on the left, which was a lounge.

The General was sitting on a couch in the center of the room facing the door. He did not get up as Marguerite entered the room. He nodded to the servant and raised a half-full glass of port to his lips.

"I'm afraid I've already supped," he said, a wave of a thick fingered hand indicating the couch directly opposite himself. "Port?" he asked, his eyes glassy with overindulgence, following her as she sat down.

"No, thank you. I'm here for something else entirely."

"Ah, yes," he said, ruffling his mustache with a finger. "I was, of course, told that you'd sniff me out eventually. Amazing, that, being a woman and all, what?"

"Yes, my gender is truly shocking," she replied dryly. "Do I have to ask?" she continued in a tired voice.

"Ask what?"

"Where. Is. It."

"Oh, right. The book, eh? 'Fraid I can't give it to you. Dreadfully sorry and all that."

"I don't care whether you can or can't, you will," she said threateningly and drew her pistol from her purse, aiming it at his heart. "Now. Don't make me ask again- it really is tedious. Just tell me where it is and I'll be on my merry way."

He blinked several times at the gun and finally sighed, placing his glass on a small table next to his couch. Shifting his considerable weight in his chair, he shook his head. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that, Miss Krux. No, not at all."

Just as he was finishing his last statement, two men came in the other doors to the lounge, each with their own pistols aimed, directly at her.

"Not your day, what?" Tregarth said as she reluctantly lowered her own pistol. Both of the men came forward, one taking her pistol and beginning to bind her hands behind her, the other keeping his pistol aimed at her chest.

"The day's not over yet," she hissed as she struggled against his lackey who was trying to get her out of the room. "You'll be sorry!" she screamed just before everything went black.

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When Marguerite finally opened her eyes, she groggily assessed that she must be in the cellar of the townhouse. Her head had been leaning against a large metal basin for washing linens and the table in front of her had an iron still cooling atop it.

She slowly stood up, rearranging herself clumsy, having been dropped on the floor unceremoniously, she assumed, had left her in a stiff, unnatural position. Mercifully, they had not bound her feet. She paced up and down the small room, working out the chinks in her back and legs. She wiggled all her fingers tied up behind her to restore circulation. She tried the door but that was useless. Locked up tight.

She had been stupid. Again. Too bold, too much, too fast, she hadn't seen it coming. She had overestimated the man's intelligence and blindly forgot that he would have associates. And yet, as she paced, she became convinced that something was off. That he had the book, of that she was certain. But that he had the Roxton jewels he hadn't mentioned them. But to his credit, neither had she. He had not changed- his physical appearance was his own and no craft was in it: he really was as large and fat as she had remembered him. And no one encumbered with so much weight could have dashed up the stairs, done the lock on the safe, snatched the jewels and dashed back down without people thinking that elephants were stampeding.

She lowered herself back onto the hard stone floor and felt around for the end of her skirt. Lifting up the fabric high, her hands scrambled to find her knife that she had attached to her thigh. Ever so slowly extracting it from its makeshift cloth scabbard, she finally freed it. She wedged it between her hands and began to slowly and carefully slice away at her bonds. 

As she worked, she thought more and more about Tregarth. He wasn't the kind of man to get his hands dirty. As one of the ropes broke, it occurred to her. He must have been working in tandem. Someone fetching the prize while he distracted her with those boring tales about India and camels. What a fool she had been!

The rest of the ropes broke and she tossed the remains onto the floor. Rubbing her wrists gingerly, she shook her head in disgust. Blind idiot. Too preoccupied with the Lord and Master to notice what was really going on. Lovestruck idiot. She re-sheathed her knife and pulled out her lockpicks to work on the door.

Once she managed to get it open, she heard two voices echoing down the hall and saw a small candlelight illuminating the far wall. The lackeys must be coming to check on me, she mused. She chose her weapon well and hid in the shadow of the door, letting it close locked again.

Sure enough, the two men appeared, one holding an electric torch and the other jangling keys into the lock.

"Oi! Aye say, can't you keep the light steady?"

"You don't have to hold it and a pistol now, do ya?"

"Aye dun't see why we need it anyways, just a 'armless little woman."

"Right pretty, what? Aye'd fancy a piece of that, I would."

"You fancies anythin' wit two legs. There," said the second one, finally opening the door. "Come out, come out wherever you are," he said in a singsong voice.

Both men had entered the room all the way when she stepped out from the shadows. She swung her arm forward and hit the man carrying the gun upside the head with the iron, knocking him out cold. The torch hit the floor, scattering light erratically around the room.

"What the--?" was all the other man managed, when he too was bludgeoned and sank to the floor. 

Marguerite looked approvingly at the iron before returning it to the table. "Finally, a domestic tool I can use," she said aloud to the unconscious figures on the floor. She felt around for the light and the man's pistol. Checking the chamber, she found it only had two bullets left. Great. Just great, she thought angrily. Can this day get any better?

She shut off the light and left it too on the table. Didn't need another giveaway. She ran her hand along the first man's belt to find his keys and yanked them free. Unlocking the door, she glanced up and down the dark hallway to see if any of the servants had been alerted by the noise. So far so good. Not that I can see them anyway, she grimaced, taking one last look at the torch on the table before shutting the door behind her and locking it. That ought to hold them, she thought satisfied, and began to inch down the hall, her hand brushing against the wall to orient herself.

After what seemed like an interminable interlude in the dark, she finally came upon a stairwell and breathed a sigh of relief. Hoisting her skirt, she slowly crept up the wooden steps, taking extra care that she did not step on any noisy planks. She reached the first landing, which appeared to be servants quarters and kept going. Another flight up took her to the main townhouse, most likely on the opposite side from where she had come in. 

A long hallway stretched out both ways. A crossroads. Left or right? She could see only the faint outlines of objects that cluttered the hall, barely illuminated by the night sky from windows at either end. She took a few steps to the left and then stopped. Turning again, she headed right until she reached the very last door. Placing her ear to the wood, she could hear faint humming. It sounded like a march of some sort. Most likely the man of the hour and stone drunk too.

Taking a deep breath, she soundlessly opened the door and slipped inside the room. From what she could see, it was a study- the only light emanting from a desk lamp on a large mahogany desk. Tregarth was stumbling to his seat behind the desk, carrying a mostly empty bottle of port. It seemed that in his drunken state he liked to reminisce, for there were papers scattered about and half of his military uniform had been assumed, his medals hanging at odd angles from his twisted lapel. 

She slowly began to approach the desk, still hiding in the shadows of the room. He was fiddling with something now oh good Gad. He was sharpening a standard issue army knife. Bully for him. Her eyes widened at the sight; she couldn't imagine how the drunk fool managed not to hack off his fingers.

Steadying her nerves, she slowly walked towards him. She was three feet away from the desk when he finally lifted his bleary eyes from his knife and noticed her presence. "But-but-but"

"General. I told you what I came for. And I don't mean to leave without it. Where's the book?" she asked raising her pistol into his view. 

His eyes looked wildly around the room and at the door. "Where are--"

"They are taking a nap. It's just me and you and the book, now." She cocked the gun.

He blinked a couple times and set the knife down on the desk. "You wouldn't shoot me."

"I have quite a reputation for using firearms indoors, as I am sure you are well aware," she said calmly, taking a few steps back to grab a pillow from a nearby chair, all the while having her eyes and her gun trained on him.

"You wouldn't"

"I am going to ask you one more time or I will shoot you in the leg, perhaps?" she suggested, moving closer to the desk and aimed her pistol lower.

"No. Never."

"One" she raised the pillow in her other hand.

"It's mine, d'ya hear? Mine!"

"Two" she held the pillow in front of the gun and leveled it at his right leg.

"You can't expect to--"

"Three," she said and pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the pillow sending goose down all over the floor, the sound of the shot muffled effectively. The screams of the General were not.

"You shot me!" he bellowed, again and again, clutching his right leg, which was, as expected, bleeding profusely.

"Where is the book, dammit!" she screamed back, cocking the gun again.

"It's here, you bloody bitch! Crazy whore! Here!"

"Where? In the desk?" she began pulling out drawers until she tugged at one that wouldn't open.

"Is it in there?" she asked wildly.

"Yes, yes. Bloody minx," he ended, his voice becoming thick. Then his whiskers lifted into a half grin. "Won't get it. Key. You don't have," he gasped out, his eyes half closing with pain.

"These keys?" she smirked, and revealed the ring that she had pulled off one of the lackeys. He began to cough as if he were choking as she began trying the keys. The general continued to hack and she became more and more frustrated as she went through the keys, trying each in turn.

Finally, she heard a click and she yanked the drawer open. Sure enough, there it was. A hardbound copy of Alice in Wonderland. She pulled it out and turned, only to be pushed to the floor. The General had landed full force on top of her, forcing all the air out of her lungs. She could feel the blood from his thigh seeping into her dress. His arm was raised and suddenly she felt searing pain in her left shoulder. His arm rose up again and this time she saw it: the knife he had been cleaning, now red with her own blood. 

Just in time, she managed to get her arms free from underneath him to stop the knife just as he would have plunged it into her heart. The tip of the blade hovered less than an inch above her chest as she struggled with both hands, pushing his arm back. It was a horrible stalemate, his face flushed with liquor and fury, hers pale with fear. She tried wriggling her legs to help upset his balance but his enormous weight was too much to move.

In a last ditch effort, she craned her neck upwards and bit his hand. He lost his balance and began to curse again, the knife slipped from his grasp. She managed to roll to the side, getting scraped at the waist with the edge of the blade but avoiding the nastier fate. He scrambled again, this time his pudgy fingers got a hold of her throat. He went for the knife again but she sent in scattering across the floor to the other end of the room. 

"Bloody good for nothing" he screamed, both hands now taking hold of her throat and banging her head against the floorboards.

She gasped for breath, her vision coming and going but she knew she couldn't give up. The book was under her now, jabbing into her shoulderblades, and he was too preoccupied with killing her to care. Her hands scratched at his hands, his face but to no avail. She rolled her eyes upward, as if to beckon a higher power and then she saw it. Her pistol! Lying on the floor just above her. She reached out for it- making a small squeak of pain after belatedly realizing it was with her wounded side. Just out of reach.

He was coming slowly to the end of his tirade of curses and was squeezing harder now as she reached for it again. Her finger managed to brush the grip but no more. It was too late. There was nothing more she could do. She was going to die on this bloated dullard's study floor, a nameless, worthless woman, alone.

Her hand fell limp on the floor and her eyes closed. His squeezing seemed to slacken and she recalled the Old Man's words: They tend to stop hitting you if they think you're unconscious. Or dead. She didn't want to die here. She didn't deserve to die here- no matter what her past. Not like this. She reached for the gun with all her might and grabbed hold of the grip. Opening her eyes, she looked into his awestruck face and shot him through the heart.

He fell limp on top of her, his blood warm and wet on her dress front. With a shove, she pushed him onto his side and scuttled back. She sat there for a few moments, hugging her knees with General Tregarth's dead body two feet away, his eyes still open with surprise. 

She shakily got to her feet, her whole body trembling. Glancing back at the table, she spied a clean cloth and wiped her hands and face. Her dress was a horrid sight, with ghoulish dark stains dotting her chest and skirt. She only hoped that under cover of darkness no one would notice. Making sure her hands were suitably clean, she picked up the book where it had fallen from her grasp.

Alice in Wonderland. Flipping through the pages, she noticed faint marks, in the margins, an underlined word here and there. It was the cipher book. She shut it closed, the dull thud of the pages sounding eerily loud in the silence of the room. She had to get out of there, and fast.

She hurried out the room and down the hall. Finding the main stairwell, she dashed down the steps, one steadying hand on the handrail. On the hall table by the door, she found her jacket and hat. Not questioning its presence, she grabbed them and went out the front door. Sure enough, it was raining. Bloody English weather.

She couldn't afford to take a taxi since it could always be traced back to her. Neighbors tend to remember hansom cabs coming and going at odd hours of the night. Going on foot would insure her anonyminity. She walked as quickly as she could, sticking to the shadowy parts of the streets and looking over her shoulder often to make sure she wasn't being followed.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. No one knows who you are or what you have done. You could stroll back to the safehouse and no one would be the wiser. Yet her uneasiness persisted and she shivered uncontrollably. She struggled with her coat as she walked, the wind blowing one arm away from her grasp. A few blocks from the East End, she conquered her coat and pulled it tight across her chest, covering the book. Her hat had blown away a couple blocks ago and she cursed it to hell as her hair whipped at her wet face. She stumbled and tripped twice, getting her coat covered with muddy water. She cursed in frustration- why couldn't she ever make a quick retreat without getting encumbered by her own two left feet?

Finally, she reached her apartment. She climbed the stairs slowly, taking deep breaths. She was home. She breathed deeply and started, remembering her hurt side, numbed only temporarily by the cold and the rain.

She came to her door and bent to the door handle, reaching down to her skirt with her bad arm. With gritted teeth, she slowly retrieved her lockpicks and worked at the door. It creaked open and gratefully she stepped inside. She rested her forehead on the closed door for a moment, relieved beyond belief. She licked her lips and deposited the picks on the bureau, followed shortly by the book. She began to unbutton her jacket when she heard a familiar voice say in a low voice: "Miss Krux."

Slowly turning, she saw him, sitting by the window sill, his face swathed in darkness. But she knew who he was- she would know that voice anywhere.

"I've been waiting for you."

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TBC


	9. Aid From the Enemy

Devil May Care Part 9/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 8.

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"It was amazing how innocent that man could look when he wanted to. His eyes were very blue. The shadows under them were like bruises. Then he grinned and his fine-boned face was transformed- from Saint Sebastian to Mercutio." ~ Vicky Bliss, Street of the Five Moons, Elizabeth Peters

"So now you're sleeping peaceful/ I lie awake and pray/ That you'll be strong tomorrow and we'll/ See another day/ And we will praise it/ I love the light that brings a smile/ Across your face./ Hold on/ Hold on to yourself/ This is gonna hurt like hell." ~ "Hold On," Sarah McLachlan

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Marguerite's Apartment, the East End

__

"I've been waiting for you."

Marguerite slowly drew in a breath to control herself and then spoke, in the calmest of tones, "Why, Lord John Roxton. I am so sorry that I was not home to let you in. It seems a little matter, since you have made yourself comfortable." She did not move save for the arching of an eyebrow as she watched him stand to his full height and enter into the light coming from the window.

"Not as elegant as the Ritz but homey enough. You certainly do get around, don't you? Out at all hours of the night again?" he asked, amusement in his voice as he continued to slowly approach where she was standing.

"And you seem to take a great deal of interest in affairs that don't concern you," she said, biting off her words forcefully.

"I am very much part of whatever game you're playing- Tom made that very clear."

"Did he now? And what great insight did the brat give you?"

"He's actually very bright, given his age and condition in life. But you wouldn't know that, would you? That would require caring about something and someone other than yourself and your own interests."

"You don't know anything about me or my interests!" she countered indignantly.

"I know enough to make me wary- and that's enough. I know you know more than you're letting on-"

"More than you do, anyhow. Tsk," she clucked with her tongue, giving her head a slight shake. She immediately regretted the gesture; it reminded her of the blow to the head she had received earlier and the room became slightly out of focus for a few seconds. Utterly grateful for the darkness of the room, she narrowed her eyes and recovered quickly, taking a deep breath before she continued.

"Now. If you're quite finished, I'm afraid I gave the footman the night off so you'll just have to escort yourself out." She made a small gesture towards the door, cautious not to jar herself too much. Her body ached more and more and the struggle to maintain a veneer of calm was taking its toll. Let him think what he will, she thought, but I'll be damned if I faint in front of him. Just leave like a good little boy

Her eyes remained fixed as he slowly made his way towards her and the door, his hat in his hands. He stopped a few feet away and picked up the book she deposited on the dresser. 

"Alice in Wonderland?" he looked at her questioningly. "What is it, a first edition you stole?" 

"Some light reading, that's all," she said, grabbing the book from him a bit too forcefully and clutching it to her chest. She pressed her lips together hard but still a gasp of pain came forth. 

Roxton squinted in the bad light of the room. He came closer to where she stood and pushed the lapel of her half open jacket aside with a fingertip. "My God you're hurt."

"I'm fine," she replied through gritted teeth.

He held up his finger so that she could see it was wet with blood from her wound- it was beginning to soak through her jacket.

She swallowed slowly, looking away. Never did get used to the sight of her own blood. "Just a scratch."

He grimaced and tried to gently pull away her arm holding the book against her chest. 

"No," she said hotly, clutching at the hardbound cover as if it were a lifeline.

"Look- I'm not going to take it, just - here, come on, now, you're bleeding pretty bad here! I just want to see"

Lowering the book, she undid the last button on her jacket with the other hand and it swung loose, revealing her mud and blood stained dress.

"Damn," he whispered, shock writ on his face, as he raised his eyes to hers- not as focused as they had been.

"Stay with me now. Focus," he said louder, taking her head in both his hands. "You need a doctor."

"No," she said forcefully.

Stubborn fool woman, he thought exasperatedly and began to look around the room. "Then you'll have to deal with me." She grimaced but nodded affirmatively. "Do you have any clean cloths or-"

"Closet. Supplies. Basin behind you," she said, her words lacking their former precision and her stance losing its solidity. 

"Let's get you to the bed," Roxton said, letting her half lean on him. She sat down, the book still in one hand and began to slowly undo the buttons on her dress.

Roxton turned away quickly, slightly unplussed at her lack of demurity and then quickly recovered. Desperate times, desperate measures, he supposed. He went to the small closet on the other side of the room and found some small but reasonably clean cloths, some medical tape, iodine, gauze, rubbing alcohol as well as the drinkable variety. He looked at the horde in amazement before grabbing what he was told. Like she was preparing for a small war.

He then went to the bureau. Taking the pitcher from the center of the basin, he outpoured half its contents into the bowl and took it over to the bed with the other supplies. Marguerite was still sitting on the edge of the bed quietly, her dress pooled about her waist, her chest clad with a once white camisole that steadily now was being turned red.

With her good hand, she crossed behind her head and grabbed her loose hair, pulling it to her right side, completely baring her left shoulder.

He sucked in his breath and with two not-so-steady fingers, lowered the camisole strap now soaked red, down her arm, exposing the gash. His throat became tight and his stomach lurched at the sight. He could tell a knife wound when he saw one- and this one was particularly nasty. Deep and neat, a sharp blade handled by someone with considerable strength. What had happened to her? He had planned so many cunning strategies of how to beat her in her own war of words, so that this time he'd leave with more than a bruised ego. And now he was tending to her wound, gently dabbing the blood away, watching the water in the basin become more and more red.

She wasn't looking at him. Her head was turned away and she had made not a sound- not even when he finished and she had handed him the iodine to put on. He had had enough injuries himself to know it stings like hell. At least when he or his fellow expedition members to Africa had gotten wounded they always made a fuss, complaining through each other's ministrations as a reassurance. And her quiet as a mouse and as still and pale as a marble statue, with a gash that lesser men would have fainted dead away at. 

"There. All done," he said, his voice slightly scratchy, as he placed the last piece of tape on her shoulder to hold the dressing in place.

She released her hold on her hair with her right hand and dark curls cascaded down her back. Her left hand had remained immobile, resting on her chest and holding up the camisole over the swell of her breasts. She replaced her left with her right and slowly she slid her arm away from her body, revealing the second wound on her side.

"I guess, not quite," Roxton replied as he licked his lips again. He slowly pulled at the dainty silk fabric, so thin and light in his hands, and raised it upwards until he could see the gash on her side. Not nearly as bad, but bad enough.

He looked up and was surprised to see her looking back at him, those peculiar eyes so intense in the moonlight. He lifted his head a little and there was precious little space between them, her warm, exposed body so close Her lips were less than an inch away from his and for the longest moment he fought every instinct in his body not to kiss her soundly. Instead, with great effort, he cleared his throat and murmured, "I need more gauze." He rose and went back to the closet.

As his back was turned, she spoke and almost sounded like her old self. "Not squeamish, now, are you, Lord Roxton?"

"No. Never," he said, rising and returning to sit by her side. "Just wondering how you managed to injure yourself so thoroughly. Jilted lover, perhaps?" he said, managing a small smile.

"Barroom brawl. Wrong place at the right time," she replied without a bat of an eyelash. 

"Ah," he said obliquely, not believing a word of it. As he worked on her side, he slowly began to take in the dress. Patches of ominous dark stains were in more than two places and he had already noticed the beginnings of a bruise on her temple. Something serious had happened but what? He would be the first to admit that he wouldn't trust the woman as far as he could throw her but this kind of physical violence against the fairer sex didn't seem quite cricket.

When he had finished, he rinsed out the last cloth and he could have sworn he heard a small sigh escape her lips. He gathered up all the odds and ends left on the bedspread and placed them on the bureau. When he turned back, he saw her attempting to swing her legs onto the bed without upsetting her side, and by her candid facial expression, he could see she was not having much luck.

"Easy, now," he said in a quiet voice, helping her back onto the bed. She lay her head back on the pillow and he sat down by her feet and began to absently play with the hem of her dress. "Is there anywhere else-"

"Not mine," she replied thickly, her eyelids now only half-open. She was getting tired fast and seemed to have lost all her former self-possession. His eyes softened as he beheld her, looking so uncharacteristically fragile, her pale face surrounded by her loose hair. 

"Tom wouldn't have told me if I hadn't forced him to."

"Doesn't matter," she said, her right hand bringing the book closer to her side.

"I was wrong. About you." In response to her raised eyebrow he continued, "You don't have my mother's jewels. I looked before you got here."

"Your vote of confidence is overwhelming," she said quietly back, a slight smile on her lips and her eyes closed.

He stood up, as if to leave and her eyes opened, looking startlingly blue. "Wait. Please stay. Until I'm asleep?" Her voice sounded so different, so childlike and sweet as she made her request. His stomach flip-flopped again to his surprise.

"A gentleman could never refuse a lady's request," he replied, sitting back down, this time by her side and taking her hand. He kissed it gallantly, and restored it to her side with a reassuring smile. 

She managed a half-smile back and closed her eyes again, every once in a while feeling the most peculiar sensation- almost as if there had been a draft in the room, a ruffling of her hair so gentle that she was certain she was dreaming. 

Once he was sure she was asleep, he rose to his feet ever so slowly, not wanting to disturb her. Stretching his tired limbs, he saw the first lights of morning through the dirty window of the room. Running a hand light over her hair, he bent down and kissed her forehead gently. Dusting off his hat, he donned it and left, to go home and get some sleep himself. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC

A/N: Shorter, I know but haste seemed to be definitely an issue with this particular part. ;) Don't worry- there's plenty more to come scores to settle, jewels to find, an expedition to launch 

Please review- it makes me write faster! ;)


	10. The Roxton Jewels Recovered

Devil May Care Part 10/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 9.

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"It is not enough that your designs, nay, that your actions, are intrinsically good; you must take care they shall appear so. If your inside be never so beautiful, you must preserve a fair outside also. This must be constantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care to blacken it so that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will not be able to see through it and discern the beauties within." ~ Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones, A Foundling

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Marguerite's Apartment, the East End Morning

Marguerite groggily awoke, squinting at the sunlight that managed to come through the dirty window. She started to prop herself up and felt pain up and down her left side, jolted into remembering the night before. She cursed aloud with her half opened eyes and turned away from the window only to painfully leap to a sitting position with a small yelp.

"Bloody hell, it's you," she said with an exasperated sigh, trying to regain her breath and normal resting heartbeat.

"Who else d'ya think it would be?" Tom asked with an impish grin, moving closer to the bed. "That cov Roxton?"

Marguerite's cheeks tinted ever so slightly red. "Ah no. But I did hear that you two did bond quite nicely. Why didn't you follow him home?" she managed, as she gritted her teeth to shift her weight and move closer to the edge of the bed.

"Ay'm so sorry, really! Aye didn't mean ta tell 'im, really! But there was a flasher an' "

"He fed you, right? Talked prettily to you, said he only wanted to help," she grunted as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

Tom's eyes were wide as saucers. "You can be very spooky sumtimes, you know dat?" 

She just grinned and shook her head, lighting touching the bruise forming at the edge of her hair. She hoped it didn't show too much.

Tom gasped as he finally noticed the bandages on her left shoulder. "What 'appened? Mark get rough?"

"Something like that. Would you mind retiring to that corner again?" she shooed him off, ever so slowly attempting to get up. 

Tom blushed and nodded his head, trotting off to the other side of the room.

Stifling swear words, she gingerly rose and walked to the closet. Only one dress left- the rest were sitting in a pile on the floor of her suite back at the Ritz. With a sigh, she slowly removed the remains of her blue dress and with care began to don the black one. As she did, she became more aware of the handiwork Roxton had done on her wounds. Not bad, she thought reluctantly. Must be from all that time in Africa- probably had to bind up tiger claw scratches, she mused idly. 

Damn that man! Stubborn arrogance! To find her and search her safe haven, her bolt-hole, and then to take away all she had left: her dignity. And she couldn't even hate him for it. Oh yes, he had seen it all, hadn't he? Without a word, he had done as she asked, had made sure she was alright, watched over her while she, the helpless damsel, slept. 

She ran her good hand through her hair, remembering the light touch of his fingertips on her bare skin. Bloody hell. I can't win, can I? Damn him, damn him, damn him! Remember Shanghai, girl, and get a hold of yourself. Stop blubbering like an idiot, use that brain of yours and fix this mess before it gets worse, she scolded herself. 

Tom was beginning to get impatient and was fidgeting restlessly, tapping his feet in some rhythm unbeknownst to all save him. "You need any help?" he asked impishly, half turning his head around.

"You tear your eyes away from that wall and I'll tear them from your head," she replied nastily, hastily finishing buttoning up the front of her dress. "You can turn around now, brat."

Tom did as she asked and went straight to the bed, hopping upon its disarrayed sheets. He sat perched on the edge, swinging his feet back and forth as he watched Marguerite sit down and struggle with her hair. It was fully down and snared in tangles- a formidable task to master even with both arms in good working order. 

Marguerite was cursing under her breath in a battle with a particularly pernicious knot when her brush was plucked from her hand. "Hey!"

"Aye's can help wit this, at least," Tom said before dragging the brush through her hair. 

"Hey, hey, hey, not so rough!" she replied angrily as he pulled hard on the ends.

"Aye had a sister once, who had the wildest hair. 'Course, it wasn't as pretty as yours, red hair she 'ad, like me mum. Mum went out for lunch one day- never came back," he explained quietly. "Then it was just me and Sally- that was me sis- and dad. Sally couldn't do 'er hair 'erself so Aye got to 'elp. Got right good at it, Aye did Right before they took 'er," he said darkly. 

Marguerite grimaced. Crushers did have a habit of relocating children to "better environments," especially if they were the likes of Tom, hanging about in the streets. Most were never seen again and she didn't doubt that Tom's sister was just a nameless face somewhere. 

"Yes, well, try not to rip it all out, okay?" she said in a less harsh tone. She found herself remembering Roxton's words from the night before. What the hell did he know? She knew this boy better than he ever would. His lot in life hit too close to home.

"You- um you have any sisters or brothers?" he asked in a tentative voice.

Surprising herself, she answered his question truthfully. "I have no family," she stated bluntly.

"Like me," Tom said, trying to be cheerful.

"Yeah. Like you," she added softly, almost in a whisper. Tom fell peculiarly silent and brushed only lightly at her tangles. Inexplicably worried, she began to blabber about her travels on the continent, heists she had pulled, interesting people she had met. She even told him about the near- disastrous affair at the casino in Monte Carlo when she met her late husband. 

Tom guffawed and yanked all the while until finally he said with a laugh, "You are a 'orrible liar! Aye bet 'alf o' dat ain't true!"

Marguerite found her mouth half open as if to reply before she snapped it shut. The truth was she had spoken frankly on every point she had brought up, in a rush to placate him and lift his spirits. Good Gad! I really must be losing it- first the Old Man, then Roxton, now the brat! Playing hairdresser, spilling secrets maybe she had been hit on the head much harder than she thought. 

She stayed his hand, wincing as her arm throbbed. "That's enough. I can manage." She only had the strength to endure putting up half of her hair; the rest trailed down her back in a cascade of curls. "That'll have to do," she muttered, cursing herself for losing another hat.

"Dat looks nice. Why don't you do dat more often- ya know, wit the hair" Tom made gestures suggestive of hair around his shoulders.

"Women's fashions is a topic I suggest we save for another day," she said sternly, rising from the bed. 

"Where we goin'?"

"**We** are not going anywhere."

"Awww not again," Tom began to whine but Marguerite held up a stern finger.

"Look- I need you to do something for me. Something very, very important."

"Important huh? Like what?" Tom narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"I need you to stay in this flat and be my lookout."

Tom pouted and stamped his feet, ready to complain vehemently but Marguerite continued passionately," And if you screw this up, I swear I'll kill you- if he doesn't first."

"Wha?" Tom asked, suddenly very intrigued with his assignment. Figures, Marguerite thought. Only when threatened with life and limb does he get interested. Kid's got a bloody suicide wish.

"Someone may it is very likely that someone will come here, looking for me today. A man. Not Roxton," she answered, before he could even ask. "He'll probably wear a brown coat and walk with a slight limp. He wears a ring on his right hand- large, ruby set in gold."

"An' if this cov shows? What then?" Tom asked eagerly, his eyes wide.

"Don't act foolish. Tell him that I am gone and you don't know where to- it'll be the truth. He'll either give you a note or tell you to remember a message for me. You need to do as he asks. Do you understand?"

"Yah, you can count on me Marguerite," he said with a wink.

Glaring at him and cursing Roxton for telling Tom her name, she left the flat, armed with the codebook and a list of errands to run.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A Bookseller's Shoppe, the Strand

The bells on the door clanged loudly as Marguerite entered the shop. It was deserted save for one clerk, who was standing precariously on a wobbly stepladder trying to put away a large tome. It was odd, Marguerite thought, that most of the shops she visited never did any real, honest business and she almost rarely went out to actually purchase things anymore. Shaking off her musings, she approached the man, now climbing down from his ladder.

"Hello, there."

"Hello, miss. Anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, thank you, Mister ?"

"Hatter," Specter replied with a gleam in his eye, his spectacles resting lopsided on his nose. His hair stuck up in agitated tufts and ink stains blotted his shirt front. She did have to admit he did make a very convincing goop. 

"I see you have regained your sense of humor," she replied in a low voice.

"And I see you have brought me a present," he answered in the same amused, low tone, eyeing the book in her hands. "I love presents."

"Do you now? That's amazing- so do I."

"Really?" he narrowed his eyes as his lips stretched out in a smile. "Well, then, I shall have to give you one better."

Going behind the counter, he pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. "Even exchange," he said, as he took the book she had placed on the counter.

"Not quite," she said, idly toying with the edge of the wrapping of her parcel. "I fear I shall need one more. If that's not too much trouble, Mister Hatter?" she batted her eyelashes winningly.

His eyes narrowed but this time not with amusement. "Dead men don't read novels."

Ah, so the boys at MI5 had heard about General Tregarth's death, Marguerite calculated. She only hoped that they had pulled a clean-up op or that was yet another thing to be running from. "True. But then again, generals aren't known for their brains, either."

Specter set his jaw and stared hard at the windows for a long moment. He looked at Marguerite, his lips set in a tight line, and then strode to the far bookcase. Running his fingers lightly along the spines, he finally extracted a book. Brushing off some dust, he looked down at it and then back at Marguerite. He returned to the counter and slid the book slowly in front of her.

Alice in Wonderland.

"I hope you know what you're doing. The Germans won't be happy when they find out," Specter said in a hushed voice. "I assume you know who this third party is?"

Marguerite shook her head slightly in the negative. "But I have a very strong feeling about who it could be. You're not going to like it."

"I don't have to," he said, expectant.

"Is Poldi in town?" she asked innocently.

He stared at her, his face hardening into stone like a victim of Medusa. 

"I'll take that as a yes. Well, I'm off- places to go, people to deal with, doncha know?" she said in a louder voice laced with feigned cheerfulness.

The door's bells clanged once more, heralding her exit. Specter took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily. "God. I hope she doesn't get herself killed." He took out the book she had handed him and began to flip through it. The codebook, fully intact and safe in his hands. His superiors would be thrilled- the mission as far as they were concerned was over and done with. However, he had a sinking feeling that for Marguerite the spider web was only halfway unfurled.

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The Elephant Pub

Marguerite sat at the counter, her parcel and the book resting on her lap, ignoring the bartender and his bad breath. It didn't take long before she saw a familiar face appear in the mirror behind the bar. He sat down next to her and she pushed the pint that sat in front of her in front of him.

"Have a drink, Schroeder, you look thirsty."

With a mumbled "danke," he greedily drank and wiped off a frothy mustache with his sleeve. "Do you have it?"

"Yes," she replied and placed the unwrapped book on the counter. Schroeder quickly grabbed it and stuffed it under his coat. He then extracted a small pouch from an inner pocket and handed it to her just under the bartop. 

"Oh jolly good," commented Marguerite as she took the extended bag and hearing the coins jingle within. 

"He would like a report," Schroeder said to his glass.

"He will just have to wait, won't he? Besides, he already has what he wants. And now," she said, tucking the pouch into a pocket, "I have what I want. Until next time." With a wink, she stood and left the pub. 

She walked slowly back to the East End, swinging her parcel lightly in her right hand. Karl now would assume that he had what his superiors were looking for. He probably had found out by now that it was a codebook but he wouldn't be able to tell without assistance that the book she had passed along was simply an unaltered copy of Carroll's story. Karl was no codebreaker- he wasn't even a very good spy. It would probably get all the way to Berlin by the time the idiots realized that they'd been snookered and the beauty of the plan was that she could play it innocent the whole way through. The mission statement mentioned no codebook, did it? She smirked to herself. 

As she rounded the corner and came onto her street, she saw Tom pacing about and scowled. Unbeknownst to him, she made her way closer to where he was fidgeting on top of an abandoned crate. Grabbing his collar from behind, she dragged him into the alley directly behind him, Tom sputtering indignantly.

"Mind the collar, eh? Everyone grabs the collar"

"What part of 'stay in the flat' was unclear to you?" she hissed angrily, letting him go.

Tom rearranged his shirt and glared up at her. "Aye know wot ya said, but 'siderin' the circumstances, Aye thought Aye'd betta come out and look for ya."

"Oh yes, it's all so much clearer now," she said nastily. "Look, I told you to wait in the flat for a reason"

" 'e came," Tom interrupted her. "Just like you said. You are spooky, you know dat? Scariest lady Aye've ever met."

"I'd thank you if I was sure if it was a compliment. What did he say?" she asked impatiently.

" 'e bade me give you this- even paid me for delivery. Then left straightaways," Tom reported, handing her a small folded note. 

It was the same type of paper that the note the Old Man had given her had been written on. Unfolding it, like before, all it contained was an address, one that she knew from years ago. "Poldi," she murmured.

"Wha?" Tom asked curious.

"Nothing. Hold out your hand," she ordered.

Tom eyed her suspiciously and clasped his hands behind his back. Marguerite glared. "Oh for heaven's sake, I'm not going to drop snakes in it, just hold out your hand."

Warily, he extended his hand and she dropped into it several coins, causing his eyes to widen.

"Get yourself something to eat, clean yourself up. Then I want you to take this," she extracted a couple bills from the pouch Schroeder gave her, "and buy something special." She told him what she expected and he giggled triumphantly.

"Aye tol' ya Aye could 'elp!"

"Yes, well, keep your nose out of trouble- and when I get back, you better be snug and tucked in that flat room or I'll skin your hide."

He just grinned and ran off, hooting triumphantly as he rounded the corner out into the street. 

Shaking her head and feeling the corners of her mouth turn up in a smile, she turned the other way and headed toward the Ritz. It was time to don the red dress. She had to visit to perform.

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Audley Square

Marguerite stepped out of the hansom cab with the assistance of the butler and was promptly led towards the grand entrance hall of the imposing townhouse. She silently removed her cloak and hat and stood expectantly as the butler appropriated a place for them. She maintained her hold on her parcel and was not questioned about it. He then returned and led her to the main parlor. With a slight bow, the butler left the room, silently closing the door behind her leaving her alone with her host who had risen as she entered, holding a cigarette in an ebony holder elegantly with one hand.

"Count von Berchtold," she said matter-of-factly, crossing the room and extending her hand.

He took it and kissed it gallantly, his mustache skimming the black lace and his eyes focused on the dipping neckline of her dress. "Miss Smith."

They stood in silence for a short moment contemplating one another for a second, both clad in crimson- her in lace trimmed dress, he in a velvet dressing gown. "Should I feel mortified that we have such similar taste in clothes?" he commented dryly, moving to the sideboard.

"No- you should feel mortified that I wear it better," she replied in the same tone, taking a seat on the plush sofa. 

He chuckled half to himself as he set the holder down in order to pour drinks. "Still managing to convince people you're an heiress?" he asked over his shoulder.

She pursed her lips, determined not to break her façade of serenity. Poldi always played dirty, a master of the scathing comment. He lived well, as he always had and was always pleased to remind people of their place, especially her.

"Oh, same old luck as always. And you? Still innocent of all those dreadful things in Sarejevo?" He didn't flinch; he was too much of a professional for that. In reality the whole business just served to show that both of them were equally dirty and above petty blackmail concerning the past. He knew that she had acquired her wealth in more interesting ways than inheritance and she knew that he had more than a finger in causing the assassination that caused the Great War. It wasn't like he wasn't paying for it already, having lost his status as the Austrian Foreign Minister, though he always was a dreadful snob.

He turned and handed her a glass, a grin on his face. "You know, you really are quite amusing. It's a shame you're you, we could have had so much fun together."

"Yes, well, I suppose that's something one can't really help, is it?" she sipped her drink politely.

He took up his cigarette holder again and settled into a large leather armchair, looking very pleased with himself, puffing away merrily while swishing his port idly in his glass. "My current paramour is so deadly dull- must get it from her father, ghastly fellow, rich as the hills though. Practically worships the ground I tread on. Can't blame her- it's her only charm really."

"Doesn't take a whole lot to amuse you, does it?" she said wryly.

"Oh no, just doglike devotion and a pocket book that's larger than mine. Rather hard feats to manage, when you think of it." He stubbed out the cigarette and leaned over to pat her on her crossed knee. "But then, there are other things that do amuse."

"I'm sure," she added warningly and flashing a grin at her, he removed his hand. 

"My dear, dear Marguerite. Here I've been, spewing about all this tripe about dotty little Helena- that's her name, did I mention it? And all the while, you haven't said a solitary word about why you've come. Patience on her monument, do climb down from there and tell me why I have been so honored to have you come visit poor little old me."

She struggled not to make a face during his painfully patronizing speech and instead managed a sweet smile and cooed prettily to him. "Why Poldi, you don't want to hear about my troubles. They're not worth the telling. Why else should I come to visit but to bask in your reflective glory?" 

He guffawed out loud and took a hearty swig from his glass. He set about refilling it as he spoke. "That's an infuriating trait of yours, my dear. Intelligence in women, horrid thing. Should be outlawed." He took his newly filled glass back over to his seat and peered at her over the glass' rim. "I suppose you want to know about the Roxton jewels."

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Call me silly, but I rather would like to see what I've been accused of stealing. I hope it's up to my reputation's standards," she finished archly.

Cocking an eyebrow, he rose again and retrieved a thick black velvet pouch from a writing desk in a corner of the room. "Since I knew you'd be coming," he explained, concerning the lack of safeguards. He handed her the pouch which she outlaid on a low table by the couch. There, safely shrouded by the crushed velvet, was a ruby brooch, a pair of diamond earrings, a peridot ring and a sapphire necklace.

She delicately grasped the ends of the necklace and held it up to the light. The stones dazzled her as they sparkled in their silver setting.

"Are you put to shame?" Poldi inquired, sipping his port.

She returned the necklace to its place and wiped her awe filled expression off her face. "I'll manage I suppose."

"It was actually rather too easy to pin it on you, old girl. You shouldn't have shot at the man- though I must confess, I would have paid considerably to see his face. Roxton is truly a horrible sort of fellow. Devoted to his mother, generous to his servants and all together lacking taste in acquaintances. Can you believe he actually made friends in such a desolate place as Peru? I mean, really!" 

Poldi stopped short in his rant and looked critically at Marguerite. "I haven't offended you, have I, dearest?" A sly smile crept onto his face as he came closer to where she sat, tightlipped. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I seem to have hit a sore spot." He controlled a giggle and then sat down next to her, taking her hand. "You do realize of course that he is a Lord. Of the peerage. With a family that has been rotting here for ages. Do you really think that you have even a speck of a chance with no family, no name, aand no money? They'd eat you alive, pretty curls and all," he patted her hand sympathetically.

Marguerite was desperately trying to control the urge to throttle him right then and there. She had been training her eyes on a singularly ugly knickknack across the room and finally believing herself to be under control, she allowed herself a glare at Poldi. 

"I'm insulted that you would even consider such a thing." 

He grinned even more and removed himself from her side to retrieve his glass of port.

"Of course you are. Now then. Obviously you've figured it out, otherwise why should you have come? By the by, what gave me away?"

"Tregarth."

"Ah, yes. I had hoped that you would mention some arcane triviality- 'I recognized the note paper' or some such rot- one does get all sorts of mad ideas from novels these days, doesn't one? - but alas, no. Not up to the usual standards, poor boy. Saw the papers. Viciously murdered in his own home, chills the blood and all that. Rather an incompetent lackey for a general."

"Oh, I don't know. He did manage to kill the original man in MI5," she hazarded a guess. She was beginning to tread on dangerous ground. She had most of it figured out- but she couldn't afford to slip up now. 

"Only because he was a greedy fat thing who wanted it for himself," Poldi said nastily, like a little boy rankling over a stolen toy. "You really saved me quite a lot of trouble by dispatching him so efficiently," he recovered.

"But wasn't that the plan in the first place? To have **me** steal it? Otherwise why do it under Specter's nose? And then, after I refused, to leak it to your good old friend Conrad who sent his insane son to order the Baroness' involvement?"

"Well, it's your own fault, you know. If you hadn't been so stubborn, Karl could have stayed in Berlin, torturing his pets. You think you had it hard? I had to dine with the lunatic one evening. Eats like a savage- hasn't quite mastered the fork and the spoon," he said disdainfully. Then an evil gleam came into his eyes when he added, "He's mastered the knife bloody well though."

Marguerite twisted her lips together to show what she thought of that comment. "So hard to find good help these days." 

"You seem to have found it in spades. Interesting characters you've been surrounding yourself with- old men and young boys. The gamut has been rung, I see."

"Is that how Tregarth figured out it was worth more than you were telling? Because Karl came to visit?" Marguerite asked, trying to regain hold of the conversation's direction.

"Of course. Bloody twit wanted more money for it. Good thing I never 'spected him to give it to me anyway. And speaking of that where's my little treat of the evening- you haven't given it away yet, have you?"

"I have it," she replied, settling the brown parcel onto her lap.

"Oh goody," he said and extended his hand for it. "Fair trade, doncha think?" 

She said nothing but raised an eyebrow and shrugged indifferently. He tore at the paper like a child on Christmas morning and sighed with pleasure when its contents were revealed.

"Alice in Wonderland," he read off the cover. "A classic. What I always wanted for my birthday."

"Your birthday is four months away."

"Then Early Birthday to me. Or should I say, Happy Un-Birthday?"

"Whichever you like. I however, must be going," she said, rising and gathering up the velvet parcel with the jewels inside. 

"So soon? No victory drink? No more veiled snipes? And things were just starting to get fun," he pouted.

"Poor Poldi," she playfully pitied him. 

"Won't you stay and trade insults with me awhile longer, Lady Roxton?"

"Leopold, do not make me shoot you. It has been a very long day," she said wearily, finding belatedly that she meant every word.

"Fine. Go," he ordered feigning hurt. Then with a sly smile, he placed the book on a table and approached her, now by the door, and took both of her hands in hers. "Darling, it's been a pleasure, as usual. Try not to shoot your lover next time you see him, you don't need another murder on your hands." He released her and she promptly left. 

He chuckled to himself. She really was quite an amazing woman. Dreadfully low and common, painfully easy to anger but always amusing, he did give her that. And his plan to use her like the effective tool she was worked beautifully. It really was a shame that he could not pat himself on the back. 

He chuckled again and he picked up his glass while flipping idly through the book with his other hand. After a drink, he looked down at its pages closer and then with a powerful stroke of his arm threw his half filled glass to the floor. It shattered loudly, the glass tinkling on the polished wood floor, its sounds mingling with his shouted curses.

He had received for his pains one genuine forgery.

Furious, he yelled for his butler. He had a phone call to make and revenge to take, and he knew exactly how he was going to make Miss Smith wish she was never born.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite's Flat, Early Morning

Marguerite watched Tom sleep, looking very content as he burrowed further into her pillow as the sunlight grew ever stronger in the window. She finished the last of her cigarette, stubbing it out on the floor before moving over to the bed and shaking his shoulder.

"Wake up, Tom. It's time to get up."

"Hmmffph," he murmured into the pillow.

"Tom. Up. Now," she ordered but in vain. Finally, she whisked the covers off of him and stole the pillow out from underneath his head, causing him to roll precariously to the edge of the bed. He tottered, tried to groggily recover himself, and then hit the floor with a thud.

"Ow," he managed, rubbing his arm.

"Good morning," she said, looking down on him and throwing the bedclothes back onto the bed. "We have work to do."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

An hour later a plainly clothed governess, dressed in dour black, was seen escorting a young lady in an ill fitting pink dress and lopsided curls from an undescript flat in the East End. Not soon after, two individuals of the same description were seen hailing a hansom cab that took them to the townhouse of Lady Beatrice Roxton.

The kitchenmaid of the Lady of the house was much later heard to gossip at the baker's that a governess had appeared that very day with her charge, an ugly sort of girl with uneven flaxen curls and dirty knees. Apparently, the governess had indulged the vile thing in coming to the Lady's party without her parents' permission in exchange for completing her Latin lesson without whining. The girl then disobeyed her tutor, gone off on her own- the governess having been remiss in her duty to watch the child, having been settled down to the dinner, which she complimented the Lady, was very good- and had come across a safe in the library that had not been locked properly. The girl, as any girl would, had decided to play dress up and had taken the Lady's things to borrow for her tea party with her playmates, which took place the day before. The party being over, she proudly confessed to her governess what she had done and was duly taken back to the scene of the crime, as it were, to apologize for unnecessarily worrying the Lady about the safety of her possessions. 

Lady Beatrice, ever a generous and forgiving sort of Lady, gratefully acknowledged the receipt of her jewelry and promised secrecy on behalf of the child. The governess, however, was severely upbraided and did inform the Lady of her impending unemployment, to which the Lady could only approve. They left rather quickly after that, the child having eaten almost an entire tray of tea cakes all by herself. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Roxton entered his mother's favorite parlor where he found her at her writing desk, as usual. Flopping down on the couch, exhausted after his night's vigil, he spied the empty tea tray and arched an eyebrow. "Visitors already?"

His mother, now alerted to his presence, turned around and smiled brightly. "Oh John, you will never guess what just happened"

TBC

Part Eleven, coming soon!! 


	11. What Matters Most

Devil May Care Part 11/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 10.

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"It does not matter what was observed! What matters is the commitment to unbiased observation, carried out in the service of Truth!" Death at Bishop's Keep, Robin Page

"I've always jumped on sentiment- and here I am being more sentimental than anybody. What idiots girls are! I've always thought so. It's dreadful to feel you've been false to your principles." ~ Tuppence Cowley, The Secret Adversary, Agatha Christie

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The Roxton Townhouse

"I don't believe this," Roxton said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Darling, that's must be the fifth time you've said that- do please stop that horrible pacing and sit down. These things happen- we're just lucky it wasn't a real honest-to-goodness criminal; I hate to admit it, but my faith in Scotland Yard's competency has been severely shaken these last couple days," Lady Beatrice reassured him, watching him from her writing table.

"No, Mother. You don't understand. I locked that safe. No one, and certainly not a child, could have just walked in and opened it."

"John, I'm sure you _thought_ that it was locked-" she began patronizingly before he cut her off.

"Mother. I **know** it was," Roxton interrupted forcefully. 

"Now listen John Roxton, don't you lose your temper with me. I don't care what you think: those jewels are safe now and that's what matters to me. If you talk about this in a civilized manner, without raising your voice to your poor old mother, then you can stay. Otherwise, I have some letters to write," she finished curtly, turning away from him in her chair.

Roxton stopped in his tracks and sighed deeply. He moved to his mother's side and kissed her on the cheek. "I'm sorry if I yelled at you."

"It's all right dear, I'm used to you," she returned with an affectionate smile. "Now you run along- I'm sure you have better things to do than gossip with me about a little girl. Can I tell cook to set you a place for dinner?"

"I have some errands to take care of in the city but I should be back in time," he remarked casually, hooking his fingers in his pockets.

"John, do try and eat something before then," Lady Beatrice ordered, concerned. Her son never did eat at regular hours, much to her anxiety. "I'd offer you some teacake to tide you over but afraid that wretched child ate them all. I hope I may not be accused of malice, but I must say that girl was certainly one of the most unattractive children I've ever seen."

"I hope you gave her a stern talking to at least," he grumbled, heading towards the door.

"Oh no, it wasn't her fault. It was that governess of hers. Stiff as a board and as forbidding as could be. I think it was those eyes- hard and grey and cold. Oh well, darling, have a nice day," she called out to his retreating back.

Roxton, however, upon hearing his mother's words, stopped in the middle of the room. Something didn't add up. It seemed very convenient that the jewels had just turned up on their doorstep, as it were- too convenient. He had locked the safe and was almost entirely certain that no governess, much less a child, had attended the party. Unless

"What was that. Mother?"

"I said, good day, John," she replied in a louder voice.

"No, no, before that. The governess what did she look like?"

"Oh, well, she was a plain sort of woman, though I suppose she could have been quite a pretty thing if she tried. Reminded me of someone- can't think of whom it might be. Dressed in black. Held herself quite oddly. Dark hair- sort of matted, like when the hairdresser uses too much treatment. And those grey eyes. Whatever for?"

"No reason, uh good day, Mother," he said before rushing out of the room. 

Lady Beatrice just shook her head and resumed her writing. She'd be damned if she could ever figure out what her son was thinking. And she completely forgot to ask him about that missing letter opener. Oh well, it would turn up eventually, she thought contently, and scribbled consistently until luncheon. 

Roxton left the townhouse shortly after quitting his mother's parlor. It was Marguerite, it would have to have been her. No one else could have orchestrated such a thing. To enter his house, under his mother's very nose! He had no doubt that she would have disguised herself in some fashion- he could hardly see her as "plain" - but no one else on earth had eyes like hers, he was sure of it. 

He doubled checked the quality of the stones and they had looked fine. It only made him more suspicious. He had checked her hideout and had found nothing. It was possible that she could have concealed her loot in some other location but to steal it, only to bring it back- playacting with Tom (who he was certain, acted out his part as the ravenous female miscreant.) It didn't make sense. He was being toyed with, manipulated, and mocked against his will and he should have known better that her pretty face had hid a snake behind it.

As angry as he was, Roxton felt a pang of guilt. There was one other scenario which could also have been true. From his mother's description it had been obvious that Marguerite was still suffering from those injuries she had sustained the night before. He flattered himself, but for a second he considered that she had done him the favor and not the other way round. He remembered that fragile face, that not so confident voice that had asked him to stay. 

He mentally shook himself. Pity is not love, and neither is lust. The woman was dangerous and a criminal and she would know that John Roxton was not a man to make a mockery of, so help him.

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The Ritz Hotel, Dining Hall

Marguerite was taking luncheon when a familiar face spotted her and made his way to her table. She managed to finish swallowing her mouthful of salmon before he made his greeting.

"Why, Miss Krux! Fancy meeting you here- you remember me, don't you? Nigel's friend, St. John"

"Smythe, yes, I remember," she said flatly, watching him warily as he sat down across from her.

Seeing her look, he blushed and turned his head around, scanning the room behind him. "I haven't taken anyone's seat, have I?"

"No, no, not at all," she replied, putting a weak smile on her face for his benefit. The truth was, she was sulking over her recent generosity- inspired by what she considered to be a lunatic episode most likely brought on by lack of sleep and blood. If she were up to her full faculties, there would be no way John Roxton would have gotten those jewels from her, first aid, handsome grin or no.

"Ah, good, then. It's a fortunate thing that we happened to run into one another- Nigel is beginning to become downright potty in dealing with the you-know-what. Half expect him to walk round the house screaming about spots and all like that lady in the thing by whatisname."

Ah. Right. Literature 101 with Professor Nitwit, Marguerite sighed inwardly. "What do you want me to say? It'll all be alright? You took something that didn't belong to you- these are the consequences."

"Yes, but But see here, it's," St. John began with flustered speech, the drool already beginning. "It's Lady Roxton," he said in hushed tones meaningfully.

"And you should have known better. If it's any consolation, she doesn't even know it's missing," Marguerite added matter-of-factly, resuming her meal.

At this point, another young blighter approached the table and Marguerite swore underneath her breath. If it was another suitor and/or a "concerned friend of Nigel's," she'd stab him with her fish knife. It turned out to be some school fellow of St. John's who, having spotted his friend as he was leaving, wanted to remind him of a previous engagement at their club later that evening. Marguerite paid the conversation no mind until she heard his friend's departing words: "See you later, Foggington-Smythe."

She dropped her knife onto her plate with a harsh clang. "I thought your last name was Smith?" A memory stirred- he couldn't be, could he? A relation- a distant relation if accounts were to be believed

"Oh yes, Nigel hates the whole rigmarole, old family ties and all that. Smythe's shorter, quicker."

"Smythe with a 'y' and an 'e'?" He nodded his head in the affirmative. "Foggington-Smythe?" She repeated the question again, amazed at her own stupidity as much as the ease of finding him.

"Yes. Why?" St. John looked completely baffled. "If you've heard stories of the old clan, it's probably just bollocks. Money's mostly gone, old grandfather barely has a pot to piss in. It's the name really that does the thing"

She interrupted him. "Don't you have an aunt, here, in London?"

Mildly shocked, he replied earnestly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Dear Aunt Jesse. Married to a scientist, don't suppose you've heard of him-"

"George Edward Challenger," Marguerite finished for him, sitting back in her chair and giving a small laugh of wonderment. She couldn't believe her luck: George Challenger's nephew. St. John, under her nose the entire time. Maybe good deeds really do get rewarded.

"Oh, so you know him. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess. It seems everyone knows of Uncle George."

"He has made quite the name for himself." Marguerite recalled seeing his name in the paper connected with finding the journals of Maplewhite- the man who had made the discovery but hadn't lived to tell the tale. If he had Maplewhite's journals, then he most assuredly had a map of how to get where she needed to go

"He's okay, I suppose. Bloo- er, Blooming half-cocked plan to find some 'plateau,' can't get the funding from anyone so Mabel- she's my gal- she can't marry me cuz Aunt Jesse won't let me unless Uncle gets his money," he pouted.

Marguerite's mind whirled. It was almost too easy. Sure, it would be more of her own pocketmoney to finance a whole expedition instead of just herself but still Challenger knows where it is, there'd be sufficient cover- no one would know my real purpose, and I might actually live to return to England since I'd have all those handy expedition members to defend my honor from the cannibals of South America, she thought happily. 

"Have you tried to help him, get funding that is?" she asked in a very concerned voice.

"Oh sure I have. Tried to talk to Lord Roxton the other night but didn't have much luck of it. Bein' a member of the same club an' all, I thought well, it doesn't matter, he probably wouldn't of listened to me anyway," he finished gloomily, hanging his head and picking idly at the tablecloth.

Marguerite permitted a small smile. The hopeless boy. "What if I knew of someone who might care to invest in such a scheme?" she said slowly, drawing out the words ever so carefully.

St. John's reaction was marvelous. Knocking over his water glass, he started, squealed and wriggled in his chair all at once. Once he got himself under control, he leaned over the table with wide eyes. "D'ya mean it? Really? Someone would pay for it, the whole thing?"

"The whole thing," she nodded affirmatively.

St. John then sat back in his chair, looking mildly defeated. "But the Zoological Society'd never condone it. He wants their blessing or something, I don't know. And after that last time, I don't think he's gonna want to talk to them again. He's got this colleague- Summerlee's his name, a potantist, I think? They deal with plants right?"

"Botanist."

"Right. Anyway, this cove always puts him right in his place and all the other old blighters listen to him and not Uncle and whish! There goes the approval."

"Maybe when you visit your uncle later today you should tell him to place the challenge the other way round," she said deviously, laying her trap.

"Visit my uncle? Today?" Seeing Marguerite's nod and blushing under her intense gaze, he half-giggled with nervousness. "Of course, yes, visit my uncle! I was planning to stop by right after luncheon to talk to him about what was that you said?"

"Challenging his colleague- Summerlee, didn't you say his name was?" she asked innocently.

"Ah yes, that's it! Exactly what I thought! Challenge Summerlee can't be a duel- fist fight out behind the club"

"An intellectual challenge," she elaborated, inwardly rolling her eyes. "Maybe he should suggest that the skeptic join him in order to support his cynical claims." St. John appeared to be at a loss for her meaning, again, and losing her control for a second, she sighed heavily. "Maybe he should invite Summerlee along, make him prove that such a thing doesn't exist."

"Ah, yes, there's the rub, now I'm thinking. Why do I think that's going to work?"

"It's a matter of pride- it's--" Marguerite stopped mid-sentence and looked at his hopeless face, so confused already. "After you offer the plan to your uncle, I'm sure he'll get the idea."

"Right, spot on, you are- I am. Yes. Brains runs in the family and all that," he sniffed.

"Well, then, shouldn't you be off?" she motioned towards the door.

"What?"

"To your uncle's?"

"Ah, yes. Right. Capital. Well, then, nice seeing you and all that. Drop poor Nigel a line, absolutely hopeless. Must be off, visiting the folks, you know," he pointed over his shoulder, and after backing into a waiter and making his profuse apologies, he finally left the dining hall.

And good riddance too, thought Marguerite. It seems like a celebration is in order. Maybe the stories about "doing the right thing" were true. After a split second's reflection, she grinned wickedly to herself. No. The way of the world rather worked in a wholly different fashion: to the victor go the spoils. 

And so, when the waiter came round again, she requested the richest chocolate cake the Ritz offered for dessert.

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Challenger's Apartments, Later the Same Day

St. John sat in his aunt's parlor under her critical eye as they awaited Challenger's appearance from his lab. Aunt Jesse was not pleased with his news.

"You've found a legitimate source of funding for this scheme?" she asked again skeptically.

"Well, yes, as a matter of speaking"

"Who is it?"

"Pardon?"

"Who. Is. It? Who is the altruistic and potty individual to whom we are so indebted for our present happiness?" she spat.

"Um" St. John wracked his brain but he couldn't remember what Marguerite had told him. Oh heavens, he couldn't of forgotten! Not now! With all that was so important riding on this!

"Some wealthy old biddy," he fibbed, wiping his chin nervously.

"Oh, lovely," she replied unenthusiastically. She swung her foot impatiently, glaring every once in a while at the drawing room door. She had called George nearly a half hour ago- what the blazes was he working on now? 

She sighed heavily and shifted her glare to her pernicious nephew, who slunk deeper into his chair under her gaze. Oh, George, do leave your bloody instruments alone and save me from the torment that is St. John, she thought inwardly.

As if by magic, the door to the room swung open and Challenger walked in, immaculately dressed with the exception of the telltale smudge of ink on his right hand. He must have a meeting later, Jesse surmised and reciprocated his quick kiss.

Challenger seated himself on a large armchair between his wife and her nephew. Looking at his wife, he could tell she was out of sorts. She was always out of sorts when St. John came to visit and generally not without good reason. Today she seemed especially on edge. Steeling himself for whatever outrage the errant nephew had instigated now, he cleared his throat and spoke. "So, St. John, you wanted to see me and now I'm here. What did you want to talk about?"

St. John sparked to life and sat forward in his chair. "I have found the money!" he said energetically.

Challenger raised a skeptic eyebrow at his nephew, whose eyes shone happily with over-enthusiasm. Shooting a questioning glance at his wife, he replied uncertainly, "I suppose that can be a good thing, if the money was ever lost to begin with."

"For the expedition, George," Jesse interjected helpfully.

"Oh." Then realization dawned on him. She couldn't mean not "My expedition? He's talking about the money for **my** expedition?" his voice cracked with emotion as he swung his head back and forth between them, gauging their reactions.

"Yes, Uncle. And I know how you can convince the Society to back you as well!" 

Challenger's eyes widened as he looked at the boy with shock. "You couldn't possibly have" he began, scoffing at the young idiot. Or at least that was how he always considered him. Truth be told, he had some bright moments but how could he, of all people, have figured out a way to loosen the closed minds of those self-important windbags at the Zoological Society?

"I have a plan," St. John continued rapidly, his excitement unchecked by Jesse's feeling groan at this statement. "All you have to do is invite along Professor Summerlee."

"What! Invite that wizened old buggard along to share by discovery? Never!" Challenger shouted angrily.

"I'm pretty sure it will work," St. John said in a quiet voice, now unsure of himself.

"If you think for one instant that I will allow that fool of a professor to come along and debunk my work, what could be one of the most important discoveries of mankind" Challenger's voice rose but was soon quieted by a murmur from Jesse.

"I think he may actually be right."

"What did you say, my dear? I must not have heard you correctly, I almost thought you said he was right."

"I don't believe it either," Jesse said, the shock evident in her voice as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously at St. John. "But I think it could work."

"Well, I cannot possibly see how it can be so," Challenger said sulkily, sitting back in his chair.

"George, listen to what he's saying. If you are right-"

"How could you doubt me?!"

"If you are right," she repeated loudly, "then what is the harm in it? Summerlee cannot possibly deny the place's existence if he has seen it himself."

"Of course! And what a recommendation it would be! To have one of their chief skeptics forced into a believer!" Challenger slapped his thigh triumphantly and whapped his nephew heartily on the shoulder, causing St. John almost to double over. "What a plan, my boy!"

"Then of course," Jesse added in the same quiet voice, "if you are wrong, Summerlee will be witness to your failure, which will become quite public come your return."

"Nonsense! There is no doubt in my mind that the place is real. And the timing is perfect, for I will finally be able to pick up my photographic prints that I had made for the Society."

"Providence works in mysterious ways," Jesse murmured, still eyeing her nephew.

"No such thing, dear. Only the wonders of happenstance! Oh, St. John, this really is the most wonderful of news. You may even tell your financial backer that they shall not be needed."

"What?" both Jesse and St. John exclaimed.

"Oh come now, you two. With such a challenge as this in my pocket, there is no way the Society can refuse me funding now. They thrive on bets such as these. You just tell your man to invest wisely in something else- we no longer need him," he patted St. John's knee patronizingly. 

Challenger rose from the couch with a beatific smile. "I think I will go pick up those plates early and call on Arthur now to set up the next meeting. A couple of days should suffice, I think." Absentmindedly bidding his guest and his wife goodbye, he left the room.

"Well, I hope you're happy," Jesse said after a long, uncomfortable silence.

"Aunt?" St. John replied, perplexed.

"And why shouldn't you be? You can marry your bloody tea girl, now can't you?"

"Really, Aunt Jesse?" St. John perked up.

"And I lose my husband to yet another wild scheme, another expedition, another discovery. It's all that matters to him anymore," she said angrily, her voice quavering. She got up and strode across the room to look out the window, watching her husband depart out into the street, striding energetically and whistling to himself. "Sometimes I wonder if I ever mattered at all," she said quietly then whirled on her nephew. "If you don't treat her right and see that she is happy til the end of her days, I swear on everything I hold dear, that I shall make you sorry you were born." And with that, she threw open the door and slammed it behind her, its noise echoing in the perfect silence of the house.

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The East End, Early that Evening

Marguerite had just departed her hideaway quite put out. She had replenished her equipment and clothes, having purchased more supplies for the closet and even some temporary provisions. She had hoped to find Tom there; he had earlier seemed intent on making the flat his home and much to her own dismay, had found that she didn't mind. Not only that she didn't mind, but that she was glad of it. In an act even more outside of her nature, she had asked the waiter for an extra slice of chocolate cake at lunch and brought it back for him. 

When she discovered, however, that he wasn't there, she scolded herself smartly. Going soft over a dirty faced scamp, returning stolen jewelry? Yet, as much as she felt she had betrayed herself, she felt good, remarkably better than she had been in many, many months. She supposed her need to help Tom sprung from their mutual lack of family. He didn't need her- technically she didn't need him either. 

No one needed her. That was part of the problem, always had been, hadn't it?

So she had left, double checking the lock on the door, satisfied that if Tom should come back, he could bloody well spend the time to practice his lockpicking. 

She was almost out of the East End when a familiar face appeared in the crowd and fell into step with her. She didn't need to look to know he had a pistol aimed at her side.

"Schroeder, you've come prepared this time," she muttered.

"Baroness, please, do not make a scene. You must come with me."

"I've finished my job- you tell Karl that. I won't have anything-"

"They have the boy."

That's all he needed to say to quiet Marguerite's rising voice. Her throat went dry and she stumbled over a perfectly flat cobblestone. 

"Please," Schroeder insisted quietly, and took her arm as a precaution to escort her back to Karl's warehouse.

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TBC

Part Twelve coming soon!!


	12. Darkest Before the Dawn

Devil May Care Part 12/?

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimer and notes see parts 1 - 11. 

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"Your cause of sorrow/ Must not be measured by his worth, for then/ It hath no end." ~ Ross, Macbeth, William Shakespeare

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The East End, the Abandoned Warehouse

Marguerite was very politely led back to Karl's temporary headquarters. Schroeder would not disobey his superior but he was leagues ahead of him in manners, taste and intelligence. And yet, at that moment, there were few people she hated more than him: the man who was leading her back into the lion's den. The only ones to top him on the list were Tom and herself- Tom for allowing them to capture him and her own foolish self for caring.

Schroeder pocketed the pistol as soon as they entered the abandoned building. As the sun had set during their journey to reach the place, the vast, empty interior was gloomy and dark. A chill ran up Marguerite's spine as she walked towards the only light in the building, coming from Karl's office, her footsteps and Schroeder's echoing loudly off the walls.

She entered the office first, at Schroeder's quiet insistence, and he closed the door behind them. Karl sat at his desk, the dim light casting an even more sinister air to his face.

"Guten Abend," he said as Schroeder pulled forward one of the red plush armchairs for her.

"Good evening, Karl," she replied nonchalantly. "What is it this time? Did you want to know how the apple gets into the dumpling?" she cooed patronizingly.

"Bitte?" Karl asked confused- he always did have a problem catching hold of idiosyncrasies, Marguerite thought wryly.

"Never mind. Care to explain yourself?" she tapped the arm of the chair conspicuously.

"Baroness. Do not think that you can play your games with me any longer. This," he said, tossing the book onto the table with a thud, " is not what was required."

"It's Alice in Wonderland, is it not?" she asked simply, batting her eyelashes.

"Yes," he hissed angrily and came around the side of the desk to stand over her. "But it is not the codebook."

"Yes it is."

"No it is not."

"Karl, I went to the General's house, that was the book he had. He died to protect it."

"To protect the real codebook, perhaps. But that you gave to someone else an old friend Poldi, is that what you call him?" he sneered, looking down at her. "My father would never address a Count so informal."

Marguerite clenched her jaw. Damn you, Poldi, she thought angrily. So this is your payback for stealing your book and giving you a fake? Selling me out to the Germans? 

"Lucky for you, Count Berchtold was kind enough to let me purchase it from him so that I may send the real book to Berlin."

That double crossing son of a bitch. Not only had he set me up, he was now pulling the wool over Karl's eyes too. I wonder what his father will think when Berlin receives not a forged codebook but an unaltered version of Alice, she thought anxiously. 

"However, our good friend drives a hard bargain. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to remit your payment as well as seven thousand more to make up the difference."

"Bastard," she hissed between her teeth. "And if I say no?" she glared up at him.

"Schroeder!" Karl barked. Schroeder nodded and left the room to return moments later with a struggling Tom, who promptly kicked him in the shins. Grappling with him, Tom finally was subdued once Karl extracted the knife from the sheath at his belt. The boy whimpered through his gag and looked intently at Marguerite.

Karl raised the knife in the dim light and the sharp blade glinted ominously. "You wouldn't want anything to happen to your little friend, now would you?"

"I don't have your money, Karl. It's useless to threaten me to produce what I don't have!" she raised her voice pleadingly.

"A woman with talents such as yours could never have a lack of resources," he spoke with clipped consonants, dangling the knife ever so close to Tom's exposed throat. 

"So you'll kill him?"

"Yes."

"And I suppose you'll hold him as collateral until I return with your payment?"

"You do not miss much, Baroness."

"And then probably, kill him anyway, just for fun. Maybe add me as well to your little list of chores."

"Perhaps," he grinned.

"He means nothing to me, Karl. Do what you like," she rose from her chair. 

"Ah, I shall prove the maternal instinct in you yet, Baroness," he said lowering the knife to Tom's throat.

"I have none, just as I have no money to give you," she said flatly and continued her way to the door, though her steps were slower and more measured. 

As she passed by an endtable, she picked up the lamp resting on its polished surface and swung it out from behind her, knocking Karl to the floor. Grabbing Tom by the arm, she promptly slapped him down, as the boy had scrambled to start fighting against the much larger man, and he slipped to the floor unconscious. For your own bloody good, Marguerite thought satisfactorily, now trapped in a dance around the furniture with a very irate Karl.

"You should not have done that Baroness," he hissed angrily, waving his knife and making jabs at her as she dodged away. 

"And you should have listened to me," she replied in the same dark tones while watching another pillow get hopelessly torn to shreds by Karl's angry movements. Schroeder stood just outside the room and yet nothing. Marguerite darted quick glances at her only exit. She had to try it was her only hope.

She was nearing the door and running out of impediments to block Karl's progress across the room. When the handle became just within her reach, Karl made his move. Swinging the knife, he charged at her and she fell against the wall, both of her hands forcing his backwards. With an effort, she drew her knee up, weakening his hold on the knife and grabbed it from him, now doubled over in pain. Raising her knee again, she flung his head backwards and he had not hit the ground before she administered yet another swift kick to his chest.

Karl was motionless on the floor. Curling her lip and selecting a few choice insults, she moved to the other side of the room where Tom was groggily coming to. With Karl's knife, she cut his gag. 

"Why'd ya haf ta knock me out? Aye knew ya'd beat 'im, Aye woulda stayed right outta the way but Aye wanted to see ya do it," he grumbled, nursing his cheek.

"You will never learn, will you?" she said disgustedly, rising to her feet and helping the boy up as well. "Come on, I'll take you home." She gestured towards the door and was pushed full force towards it by two tiny hands as the shot went off.

Marguerite turned in horror to see the pistol in Karl's hand. Tom clutched at his stomach, the blood already beginning to seep through his thin, dirty shirt. Tom's lips moved and he shot a scared glance at Marguerite before he fell to the floor.

"You know what, Karl? You're right," she said as he grinned, thinking he'd won. "I do care." And with that, she pulled her own pistol from her purse and shot him in the chest, emptying out the cartridge. 

At the sound of the rapid fire shots, Schroeder burst in through the door to find his employer on the floor, his lifeless body slowly being soaked by his own blood. 

Marguerite had lifted Tom's head into her lap and one of her hands covered his, pressing down on his stomach.

"Lady"

"Shhh, don't talk. It'll only make it worse," she chided in a whisper. "Don't worry- you're, you're going to be just fine. Just fine."

"Even Aye could tell a better lie than that," Tom coughed.

"Shut up, you silly brat, can't you listen to me for two seconds? I said you'll be fine and I meant it."

Tom's eyelids began to flutter closed and she patted his cheek furiously with her free hand. 

"Don't do this, Tom. Don't give up. Come on, stay with me. Who am I going to order around if you don't stay with me?" she pleaded, her eyes beginning to tear.

"You woulda been a great mum," he whispered raggedly.

"Yeah, right," she scoffed tearfully. 

"Margueriiiiiiiite" he trailed off, his eyes closing. Marguerite hung her head in shame and let her tears fall, not giving a damn about whether Schroeder cared to shoot her in the back or not. Bloody hell.

Angrily, she leapt to her feet and whirled around to begin kicking furiously at Karl's corpse, screaming at the top of her lungs as the tears continued to stream down her face. 

Schroeder tugged her away, pulling her towards the opposite end of the room, away from Karl and Tom.

She sniffed imperially and searched her purse for a handkerchief. Finding one, she made a display of drying her eyes and then looked steadily at Schroeder who was watching her blandly, his hand slack at his side and holding his pistol. 

"If you were going to kill me, I assume you would have done so already. How much time do I have?" she inquired in a soft voice.

"An assassin was due to arrive soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. When it is discovered that Karl is dead, the Field Marshall will order your death. I must report it- he deserves to know his son is dead. But-" he hesitated slightly, " I do not know where you go when you leave here."

Marguerite nodded slowly to show her understanding. "I am in your debt."

"Consider us even. You bought me a drink once," Schroeder said, reholstering his pistol. "But know this: should our paths cross again, and if you choose the wrong side, I will not hesitate to do my duty, whatever it may be."

"I understand," she said solemnly and walked up to him to kiss his cheek. "You're a good man, Schroeder."

He blushed scarlet and nodded, clicking his heels together and fully straightening out his spine. "Yes. Erm, well. I will see him properly cared for," he said formally, motioning towards Tom.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, and tears brimming in her eyes again, she quickly left the warehouse, grateful for the cover of darkness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The Zoological Society's Club Rooms

"Another whiskey and soda, please," Ned Malone requested of one of the waiters making the rounds in the Red Room of the Zoological Society Club.

"Another one? My dear chap, it's only we British who are known for a stiff upper lip," Nigel Wainwright scoffed, idly sipping his port.

"Well, I think I've lived here long enough to know how to hold my liquor, thanks," Malone replied sullenly. 

"Oooh, the American's getting cheeky," Nigel raised a supercilious eyebrow and giggled to himself, sinking further back into the over sized armchair he had claimed as his own.

Malone just glared at him and retreated once more to his own thoughts. He had recently been informed this morning that his big story was a flop: the Roxton jewel theft hadn't really been the heist of a century but a child's practical joke. His editor at the Herald had been glad enough to give him some leads on the city beat and all day long he had done his job, duly following unexciting stories around city.

He sighed audibly. Gladys was due to return from France with her father in a few days. He had been so hoping to impress them both with his investigative journalism- for a couple days he had thought he might even succeed in capturing the culprit before Scotland Yard. Gladys could hardly be indifferent to a hero and her father would finally consent to hire him for the Times. 

And now, everything was ruined. He had no story, no tales to regal them with over dinner, nothing. His pocket book was slowly dwindling down to nothing and he had slept at the club rooms for the past two nights instead of returning to his flat to encounter his irate landlord who was expecting the month's rent, a week overdue. No wonder Gladys remained unaffected- all I have to offer her is boyish charm and that isn't enough to marry on, he thought disgustedly.

The waiter returned with his drink and he mumbled his gratitude into his glass. Nigel, he could tell, was about to make another nasty comment, when he apparently recognized someone behind where Malone sat.

"St. John! Old sport, over here!" Nigel waved hello. "Come and sit and let me listen to your sins," he said with affected seriousness, spoiled by his drunken giggle at the end of his sentence. 

As if **I'm** the one with the drinking problem, Malone thought nastily.

St. John took his place in an armchair across from Malone and next to Nigel. "Oh Nigel, you'll never guess. Not in a million years, what good fortune I've had!"

"You do have that air about you, doncha know? Like that canary that swallowed the cat. Wait, no, no that's not right. Cat swallowed the canary look."

"Yes, because tonight I agree with everybody!" St. John said beatifically, taking a glass of port off a passing waiter's tray.

"Well, come on, then out with it," Nigel whined impatiently.

"Mabel has just consented to be my wife!"

"Huzzah, old chap! Good for you, tying the old noose, the old knot, whatnot. Lovely. Isn't that lovely?" Nigel asked pointedly to Malone, who had been trying his best to ignore them.

"Yes. Congratulations," he said courteously to St. John, raising his glass to him before taking another hearty swig of his drink.

"Yes, yes, congratulations!" Nigel chimed in and the two men drank their ports. "Don't mind him," he said conspiratorally to St. John, "He's just a bitter, drunken American."

St. John cocked his head to one side and considered Malone, who simply glared in their direction. "No, no. I bet I know what your trouble is, chap." He paused dramatically before wagging his finger at Malone. "Women trouble, isn't it? I bet I'm right."

Malone shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How the fool knew, he had no idea but it was disconcerting. 

"Oh, I wager you're right," Nigel said eagerly.

"Of course I'm right. Most men, they're perfectly fine, can deal with most everyday problems but not women. Women are a whole 'nother kettle of fish."

"Different species," Nigel nodded.

"Don't work on the same level," St. John assented and took the air of one lecturing on state economics before Parliament. "Now, take me for example. Perfectly wretched about Mabel- my dear old aunt wouldn't let me marry her. But now that Uncle will get to go on his expedition all is right as rain. Auntie is forced to see the error of her ways- they always do eventually- remember that."

"Right. You are so right. Just like me and my dear heart" Nigel began before getting choked up.

"Best forget about her, old chap. She's not going to make it much longer- ought to stick it out for someone who's gonna live another year at least," St. John patted his friend's knee sympathetically.

"Wait a minute," Malone said, suddenly interested in the two idiots. "What was that you just said?"

"Oh, pay no attention to him," St. John leaned forward and whispered to Malone. "Hung up on an older woman. Six months to live. Horrid business."

"No, not that," Malone said exasperatedly. "I meant about your uncle- what was that about an expedition?"

"Oh, well, don't suppose a Yank has heard of the great George Challenger?"

"He returned from the Maplewhite expedition months ago. Used to lecture at Oxford," Malone said authoritatively.

"Oh, er, I guess you've, um, proved me wrong," St. John stuttered, smiling wide. "Well, he's planning his own expedition, you see. To this plateau in the Amazon. Lost world or something or other. Very dangerous, very exotic. Plans to revolutionize science as we know it," St. John said without much interest, toying with his empty glass.

"Well, if what I've heard concerning Challenger's work is true, I don't doubt that he will come up with discoveries of monumental importance," Malone said, half to himself. This was just the sort of opportunity he was looking for. The ultimate story: revealing a lost civilization to the world! He could write a book- have a lecture series- Gladys would marry him in a heartbeat with her father's heartiest blessing. A chill of excitement shuddered through him. He had to find a way to make sure that he was a member of the expedition. 

"Has he found his crew yet?" Malone asked, feigning an air of disinterest.

"No, no. He's going to propose it all in a couple days when the senior club members meet. Will pass with no problem, now that he's got this old widow's money backing him up. At least women are good for something right? Now about your female problem, my lad" St. John began just as Malone quickly rose from his seat.

"It was nice talking to you two," he said in a rush, heading out of the room to start preparing. He needed to know everything there was to know about the Amazon and George Challenger before that meeting and by hook or by crook, he would be on that expedition.

St. John called "Cheerio!" to his retreating back and Nigel snorted into his port before starting up a conversation on cricket.

Unbeknownst to all three, a fourth person had been in the room during this conversation, nursing his whiskey in a dark, far corner. Lord John Roxton, senior member of the Society ever since the death of his elder brother, was boring a hole into the polished tabletop, his eyes staring into space seeing nothing. 

He had arrived much earlier than the others, after a particularly vexing day of not finding Miss Krux or the governess. He had even gone so far as to visit the home of the supposed child prankster, and had been informed by the maid that yes, they had just sacked a governess - but for drunkeness- and that there were young charges in the house- two young boys that kept the footman busy but no girls with flaxen curls.

He was furious at her, at himself. The situation had gotten completely out of hand. From the first moment they had met, she had manipulated him in the most imperious manner, nearly shot him in his own home, and made a mockery of him. It wasn't often that he pulled rank, but it was more than an annoyance to be held in such esteem by his peers as a Lord and yet unable to match wits with a woman! It could not be borne.

She had flashed those changling eyes at him and he had subserviently allowed himself to be conned and tricked in the most devious of fashions. A mere woman! He wagered that both his father and brother were turning over in their graves with disappointment in younger son John, ineptly managing the estate as usual, almost losing the jewels to nothing more than a pretty face. 

He could have more satisfaction if she had just taken the jewels and left, knife wounds, disguises and all. But instead, she returned them, under his mother's very nose, almost as payment for services rendered. He was no hired man and he would be damned if he would be seen as such by anyone, much less her. 

She had consistently deceived everyone, he had thought as he heard Nigel bring her into his conversation with the journalist. Six months to live, hah! She had played him like the fool he was, and he would not be surprised to know that it was she who had taken his pocketbook and his potty mother's pearls. 

This is what happens when you spend too much time in the city, he thought angrily. Away from the hunt and your instincts go soft. Well, no more, he resolved taking another drink from his glass. He had heard Smythe's conference. So Challenger was going to try for an expedition. He had to admit, he had heard vague references from the other members that he had tried this before, but the nephew seemed to think that this time it was a done deal. Some old hag with money to burn had finally been persuaded to the scientist's rantings. A lost world? So be it. He owed Challenger a debt that needed to be paid, and an adventure was an adventure was an adventure. He'd get away from bloody London, and bloody Miss Krux. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

TBC


	13. The Journey Begins

Devil May Care Part 13/13

Author: Nefret24

Disclaimers and notes see parts 1 - 12.

A/N: Great apologies to the writers of the pilot- I have taken the liberty of borrowing some snippets of dialogue from "The Journey Begins" as well as adding considerably to them. I have seen only one version of the pilot- unfortunately missing the scenes in Challenger's parlor. This I make up from spoilers and my own twisted psyche, so forgive me if it's not up to similar standards of excellence.

This is it, the last part to a very loooong piece of fiction. So review if you liked it, review if you hated it, review just to say you've been reading it all along. :P

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"The more things change, the more they are the same." ~ Alphonse Karr

"Now is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But perhaps it is the end of the beginning." ~Anonymous

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

George Challenger's Apartments

Jesse sat perfectly still in the parlor just outside of the foyer and watched her husband through the doorway. She couldn't really study him, as he was moving too fast, this way one minute, the other way the next, one time with a green tie and the next moment tieless but with a red vest. She stifled a chuckle and pretended to be enthralled in the evening newspaper when he barged into the parlor. 

"Have you seen where I put that blasted tie?" he bellowed, taking long strides across the room, overturning pillows as he went.

"I believe you had it on the last time you whipped through here when you were looking for your vest," she replied, ill-concealed mirth in her voice.

"Dash it all, woman, this is important!" he growled.

"George, come here." Her husband scowled but complied, returning to the couch where she was sitting. She rose and looked him up and down severely.

"First of all, you are taking off that horrid vest- I don't know what possessed you to buy that thing. Why didn't you wear the tweed? At least that has all its matching parts."

"I can't find the trousers," he mumbled, scratching his beard.

"Oh, George, you really are hopeless. Henry!" she called out from over her shoulder, while staring fondly up at her husband.

The butler soon appeared at the doorway. "Madam?"

"See if you can locate the Professor's tweed suit. And his red tie."

"Very good, madam."

"There, you see?" She waited for a reply but her husband gave none. He was mumbling under his breath. At first she wasn't sure- it could have been curses at Henry. George never did like him though Jesse had to drill it into him that she could not run a household herself. He seemed to put up with the cook well enough, but then it was a well known fact that she was no great artist in the kitchen. 

"George, I can't understand a word of what you're saying."

"Er- ahem," he cleared his throat abruptly. "Oh, forgive me, I was rehearsing. For tonight."

"I'm sure your oration will be sufficiently inflammatory. Don't get carried away- I don't want to have to hear about you causing half of the Society to have heart failure," she jested playfully, tucking some of her husband's errant red curls behind his ears. He never did schedule that haircut he had promised.

"Hmm?" he questioned obliquely, paying little attention.

"Oh, never mind, George. Go upstairs- Henry's probably found your suit by now," she finished wearily, sitting back down and taking up her paper again.

"Oh, yes, right," he continued in the same abstracted tone, and shortly left to dress.

Jesse looked at the doorway, watching him as he mounted the stairs, his hands making faint gestures as his lips moved soundlessly. She quickly turned away and focused on her hands, folded in her lap. He could act like such a child sometimes. She suddenly felt very old, as if most of her life had just passed by in the merest of seconds. George had remarked over dinner about how all his studies had led up to this defining moment, his greatest discovery, the findings that would change all of scientific fact forever. Was this what her life had led up to? Locating the trousers of the man who was to redefine the universe? 

She shook herself. It seemed that was all she could do these past couple days, was indulge in wistful contemplation of changing the way her life had always worked. It had taken her a long time to understand her husband drive, his visions of the future, his stubborn genius that refused to take a backseat to anything or anyone. He wouldn't change and neither would she; they were past their prime. She only hoped that when he left her this time, it would not be for long.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Ritz Hotel

Marguerite stood in front of the full length mirror in her suite, doing a last minute survey of her attire before departing for the Zoological club. She had gone shopping the day before, purchasing two new dresses complete with accessories. She was wearing the first of the two, a long purple frock with a dipping neckline that ended in a large floral burst nested right between her breasts. It suits me, she thought complacently, and lowered the large hat onto her head. It was extravagant, with large purple plumes and a dainty black lace veil. Just the thing for a young heiress with money to burn to wear when breaking into a men's society club. And certainly not on first glance the face of a murderess.

With a last disapproving glance in the mirror, she turned and approached the dresser, collecting items into her purse. After a few moments of careful consideration, she grimaced and put the silver pistol in as well. Couldn't hurt to be too safe. Xian's men were nowhere to be seen and Karl's assassin could have arrived by now. 

Turning to the bed, she double-checked to make sure the drapes were closed before kneeling at its base. Reaching up underneath the mattress, she found the small hole she had wrought and her fingers searched for the nearest spring. She slowly pulled her hand back, revealing a very small cloth packet. She unwrapped it and still sitting on the floor, contemplated the small tile in her hand. The ouroborus. How such a tiny, worthless scrap could have so much value she didn't know. She turned it over and over in her hand, the other one unconsciously reaching for her locket at her throat.

It wasn't fair, dammit! I shouldn't have to go half way across the world to find out my own name! She felt a tear slide down her cheek and angrily rubbed it away. Like a name would matter. It wouldn't change who she was, it wouldn't alter what she had done in the course of a colorful lifetime, it wouldn't bring Tom back from the dead.

She unclasped the locket and wrapping it up with the ouroborus, she tucked them both back into her hiding spot. Rising, she smoothed out her skirt and lowered the veil, all prepared for her evening out.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

The Zoological Society Club Rooms

Ned Malone had just found himself settled with a nice stiff drink when he discovered he was sitting in someone else's seat. The older gentleman sitting across from him gave him a slight nod but suddenly a hand appeared on his shoulder, staying his movement.

"Don't trouble yourself, there's plenty to be had," a voice followed with a puff of smoke.

"Thanks," he said in reply and craned his neck around to see Lord John Roxton take another seat next to his. "Oh, Lord Roxton, I'm sorry- I didn't realize"

Roxton waved his hand to indicate the trifling favor. "Already forgotten, Mr. Malone," he said, with another puff at his cigarette.

"You remember me!" the young journalist said in surprise.

"Of course, it isn't everyday you get interviewed by a member of the press concerning your own mother's missing jewelry."

"I heard they're back now they were returned."

"Oh yes," Roxton hissed, biting down hard on the end of his cigarette. "Everything's back to normal."

"Well, I'm ready to hear about what Professor Challenger has to say tonight," Malone said eagerly, hoping to get some comments from the other fellows in the room.

"I heard he wants an expedition of all the bloody things," said the man across from Malone.

"I heard he got money," Roxton said casually, puffing away. "Old widow."

The other man harrumphed and began to expostulate on how it couldn't possibly be so. 

"But I heard the same," Malone chimed in.

"Absolute tommyrot! Challenger would never in a million years get someone to fund his wild ideas! Balderdash, what?"

"Still babbling on about my colleague?" another older gentleman asked, as he approached the three. He smiled at them genially. "Come on, then. He's about to start- don't want to miss it."

"Why, Professor Summerlee, I had no idea you valued what Challenger had to say so much," the other older gentleman scoffed.

"Not at all. I want to hear everything so I can say, with absolute scientific certainty, that it is all a fairy tale. Will you join me, Lord Roxton?"

"Professor," he said with a nod, and rising, he began to follow after Summerlee. "Coming, Malone? Wouldn't want the press to not get the whole story."

"Save me a seat, will you? I want to talk with some of the other guys around here, a personal profile on the Professor," he said, with a gesture at their third companion, who seemed very intent upon finishing his drink before he moved any further.

"Very well. Lead on then," Roxton said with a nod at Summerlee and they both left the room. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Once again, I am shocked," Challenger said at the end of a long lecture on the prehistoric era. He surveyed the room carefully, looking in the eyes of all the older, more influential members who had seats on the floor of the hall. 

"Night after night, I listen to my esteemed" _esteemed my eye_, he thought, "colleagues pass judgement upon the purpose of certain animals on this earth."

Now it's time to see if St. John really did have some working brain cells. "Because our Dr. Summerlee has not seen a prehistoric animal, he assumes that they do not, can not exist. If he had never been to North America, I'm sure that he would hold that the world is flat!"

The laughter that followed this remark, not to mention the disapproving look on Summerlee's face was well worth the effort. But would it work? He spoke with passion, unheedful of the itch at the back of his neck where the tweed rose up as he made sweeping gestures with his hands, indicating again the grandness of his prey. "I speak here of creatures," he said reverently, "that could hunt down and devour present day predators as if they were lambs."

Summerlee, the blighter, finally spoke up. "You can hardly expect a room of topflight scholars" _HAH!_ "to support your demented" _the bloody twit! _"fantasies" _close-minded fool!_

Clenching his teeth in anger, Challenger turned behind him to the presentation board and flipped it over solemnly, refusing to answer Summerlee's goading remarks, preferring to let the plates speak for him. "Still. I feel compelled to share my findings with you" and before he knew it his temper got the better of him and he added, "ungrateful swine that you prove to be."

The room shifted as he illuminated the plates and the murmurs grew loud into a cacophony of expostulations.

"Gentlemen, behold! Proof of my contentions!" he boomed proudly as a pterodactyl appeared on the screen at his side.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The West End

Marguerite was almost there when she saw him, dressed in black and leaning nonchalantly up against the corner of a building. He turned slightly, his hat tilted on an angle obscuring his face in the dark. He wasn't from Xian- he wore a continental suit and she had caught the faintest glimmer of pale, blond hair underneath the hat as he had turned. No, he was very likely Karl's man. But then again, Xian was known to hire people

Well, one thing's for sure, she thought determinedly. I know these streets better than he does and in a brazen turn, she walked right past him down the alley. She was halfway through when she heard his footfalls ever so light on the pavement and thought she caught out of the corner of her eye something bright flicker to the ground. Cigarette, perhaps?

She moved quickly, thundering out her footsteps on the cobblestones, her heels clattering nicely to her stalker. All the better to find me with

She turned again and this time, in the middle of the alleyway stopped. The light steps behind her followed suit and she quickly moved on, straight past a fire escape, clacking madly. That would confuse him for a minute and that was all the time she'd need. She rounded another corner, this time quietly and made her way around until she quietly crept out from a sidestreet right behind him. 

"Do I know you?"

He turned, surprised, a gun in his hand.

"No," he said simply through tight lips. Oh poor baby, have I hurt your feelings? Definitely German. And don't they take disappointment so hard

"But you know me." Yes, do tell. Are you attacking the Baroness or Miss Krux?

"Does it matter?" Insolent prig. So much for getting any information. Marguerite's hand slowly slipped down to her purse and unclasped the catch.

"Just wondering if it's business or personal."

"To the Field Marshall, very personal." Oh, right, as if Karl wasn't a thorn in his side every moment of his horrid little life. But anything for the honor, eh, mein herr? "To me, only business." As if it would be anything else, you evil looking man. It's a wonder your own mother could love a face like that.

"Good, then we can negotiate." Just put away the gun, let me leave and I won't bite, promise. Her hand reached into her purse and felt the gun underneath her fingertips. She hooked her index finger around the trigger and gripped it in anticipation.

"Sadly, that would be bad business." What you think you're witty now, she thought nastily, as she extracted the gun from her bag still concealing it with the purse. 

He cocked his gun.

"Oh, I see." 

And she fired.

As he slunk to the ground, she stood over him, her face a mask of indifference. "Pity." Not really. She watched him die at her feet without remorse, alone and damp with the chill of the alley. This is the way it always was and always would be nameless or no 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Zoological Society

Roxton sat back in his chair watching as the two professors hurled insults and challenges at one another, the one asserting one of the boldest theories he had ever heard, and the other deriding it with the same exuberant passion.

Summerlee was furiously rattling off names and dates of cases including fraudulent photographs and with a glance over his young friend's shoulder, saw the reporter furiously scribbling notes. Taking another puff of his cigarette, he smiled to himself. That Malone certainly was a vivid writer- he almost chuckled as he had read the man's shorthand of Professor Challenger's wild expression- his red hair "symbolic of his choler." Oh, the poor naïve boy, couldn't he see this was just the way those two worked?

The rivalry had existed even before he had joined the society. He remembered when his father would talk about the heated debates those two had roused within the common rooms over what was supposed to be a genial glass of port. Roxton had always been careful not to take sides it was only too unfortunate that the war had chosen for him. Yet another reason it was all so important that he support Challenger tonight, even in the face of his colleague.

Roxton was knocked out of his reverie when he heard Challenger, George Challenger, agree with Summerlee! What was that he said?

"Precisely, sir, precisely!" Roxton eyed the speaker carefully and raised an eyebrow. Challenger looked like a panther ready to spring on its prey. I wonder what he has up his sleeve

"That is why I propose several of you good gentlemen accompany me to help me put my claims to the test."

And the traps were sprung. That clever old fox. With a wry smile he watched as Challenger deliberately goaded his fellow society member. 

"What about you, Dr. Summerlee? Do you have the courage of your convictions?"

The older gentleman sat rigid in his seat, clutching his pipe. He seemed quite agitated by this blatant provocation. Some members around him seemed to be egging him on and he looked from side to side like a trapped animal. Very good, Professor Challenger, thought Roxton. 

"Very well, I'll do it," the good doctor said resolutely to the cheers of other members of the club.

Well, if he's looking for volunteers, then I'm his man. Who cares if he could be miscalculating. If those photographs are real, then it's either what he says it is or one hell of a big bird. Either way, a suitable trophy for any hunter's collection.

He saw the journalist fidgeting in his seat as if he were struggling up the courage to speak. Mr. Malone, I'll buy you some time to find your voice and declare my intentions. Whether he takes me to hell and back again, I'll journey with him to this lost world and we shall see what we shall see.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Marguerite easily got in the back doors, the attendant sleeping soundly in his chair. She brushed by him without a sound and then proceeded to peek into the rooms on each side of the hall. One of them should be red

Ah. She found it, the second door on the right. Entering and closing the door softly behind her, she found the room unoccupied except for a waiter who was busy retrieving half-empty glasses from various surfaces around the room. She had almost made it to the opposite door when he turned around and noticed her, gasping aloud.

"What are you doing here! There's no women allowed in this club! How ever did you get in here? This is not suitable, not suitable at all!"

"Then no one has to know," she said, lowering her voice seductively and inclining her head towards him as he approached her.

"Madam, I say madam, this is very, erm, ahem, inappropriate for a club of this nature," the man replied stiffly.

Oh damn. He approached her and took her forearm delicately, keeping his distance from her and not looking her in the eye. "I must ask you to leave the premise immediately."

Not bloody likely, she thought and grabbed a hideous looking ashtray from a nearby table and swung it upwards, catching the man on the side of the head. The effect was almost instantaneous; he slunk to the floor and was out like a light, making almost no sound whatsoever.

"Sweet dreams, Jeeves," she said haughtily and proceeded on her way. She walked down a long hallway, with doors at either end. One she knew, led to the front doors of the club and the other the lecture hall, her destination of choice.

She stopped at the closed doors, listening intently. They seemed to be bickering about something.

" Come, come, gentlemen! This is science's chance to be daring! Surely that is enough to merit such an expenditure- not nearly so trivial as stocking the wine cellars of this establishment!" a loud voice boomed with authority. That must be Challenger.

"You're mad, absolutely mad if you think the Society will spend one shilling in the funding of this deranged wild goosechase you have cooked up for us this evening!" scoffed another voice as Marguerite ever so quietly eased both of the doors open, to no notice of any of the members of the club.

Amidst the murmurs following this statement, she spoke in a calm, detached voice: "I will provide the funding."

She held her lips in check as she grinned inwardly at the very gratifying sight of seeing all the high-ranking members of the Zoological Society turn completely around in their chairs to look with surprise at her. Mostly old men with nothing better to do, she thought, taking in her audience as she swaggered up the aisle. 

Damn it all. Roxton. Here. I should have known. Well, I'll show him just how little he holds with me, she thought resolutely, refusing to look in his direction. He hadn't even turned around but she'd know the back of his head anywhere, just as she had his voice that fateful night in her flat.

She stopped her progress right at the end of his row of seats, right next to the journalist, who gazed up at her with befuddlement. Paying him no heed, she looked straight into Challenger's questioning eyes and holding them in her steady gaze, she continued, "My name is Marguerite Krux. I will furnish you with whatever funds and resources you require for the mission."

Challenger's mouth slowly dropped open in surprise.

"Surely you cannot mean that, madam. You cannot possibly have the funds enough to cover such --" an older man expostulated but she silenced him quickly, practiced at being underestimated by Victorian gentlemen.

"My resources are not limited. The funds shall be placed in a bond by tomorrow afternoon. I expect, Professor, to be hearing from you then. Good evening, gentlemen," she finished impudently, and turned on her heels to walk out the door.

"It is done," Challenger said in a low voice, his eyes racing about the room with the quickness of his thoughts. "You will get your proof- in six months time, I guarantee it."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

George Challenger's Apartments, Three Weeks Later

Jesse Challenger was forced to set her book aside in order to receive the last remaining guest in her husband's party. All of the members of the expedition were gathered in the south parlor save their patron, the mysterious woman whose wealth was making it all possible. Jesse didn't know how to prepare herself for what she would see on the other side of the door. St. John, potty as he is, had described her as an old widow and yet George had implied that she was in fact quite young, and had identified herself as Miss Krux.

She stepped out into the foyer just in time to see a woman with long, dark curly hair hand over her hat towards Henry. The woman turned and her face held no expression. Curious, Jesse thought, both the look and the eyes. Very changeful, I would guess.

"Welcome. You must be Miss Krux. The others have arrived- no doubt you are wanting to see that everything is prepared for their journey tomorrow."

"No doubt, Mrs. Challenger," she said matter-of-factly, still unsmiling. What a cold sort of person, thought Jesse as she led the way towards the drawing room. "But I wonder perhaps, if they are ready for me."

Not knowing how to respond politely to this conceited remark, Jesse merely stood at the door and held it open for her guest. "Good evening, Miss Krux."

"Good evening, Mrs. Challenger," she replied before sweeping past her into the room. The gentlemen stood as she entered, Summerlee with the alacrity that bespeaks a true gentleman, Malone stumbling to set his glass down first, and Challenger and his companion more slow to rise.

Roxton. Of all the bloody tricks of fate. Of course she had seen him at the meeting all those weeks ago but she had had no advance knowledge that he was going on the expedition. She had kept communication with her fellow expedition members to a bare minimum, only breaking the silence to sort out financial matters and major planning issues, like ship tickets and the like. Challenger had of course, told her of the presence of another member to the group besides himself, Summerlee and the reporter. A big game hunter, he had said. She had expected another older man, some bearded aristocrat who smoked too much and would tell long war stories sprinkled with anecdotes about how close to death he had come in some glorified fox hunt abroad. 

But then again, Challenger had always been stingy with details in his excitement to get his way. Until she had entered the room, she had had no idea that Dr. Summerlee was so old- she had thought he was only Challenger's age. Certainly not older. If she had known that, she would have never suggested that St. John propose the provocation in the first place; eyeing his arthritic lurch to his feet, she doubted how long he would last in the Amazonian jungles. 

But Roxton! What a time for comeuppance for past faults! Why in the blazes did he have to come?

Well, I'll be damned if he's going to see how he's rattled me, she thought resolutely, smiling slightly and nodding deferentially to Summerlee.

"Why Miss Krux! We were beginning to give you up for lost!" Summerlee said warmly, coming forward and kissing her hand gallantly. "I don't know if you caught my name, but I'm"

"Dr. Summerlee. I have heard of you," she said and realized belatedly that she was smiling at the old man. He really was a bit of a sweetheart- it had been ages since a proper gentleman had kissed her hand.

"If it's from Challenger, I'm sure he's painted quite a picture of me. I assure you that I am much more agreeable in person."

"I believe you." She sat down on one end of the sofa and absently arranged her red skirts as she looked about the room. More dead things hung on his walls than in Roxton's library. What was it with men and their nasty specimens?

"Quite unique décor you have, Professor," she remarked in a lofty tone, and began rattling off the genus and species of the animals on the walls.

"Impressive, Miss Krux. Really, I had no idea you were so knowledgeable in the sciences!" Challenger exclaimed when she had finished, handing her a glass of sherry.

"Oh, well, I've come across a few beasts in my time," she said casually, looking at Roxton, whose knuckles became a shade whiter as they held his glass of whiskey.

"Erm, quite. Miss Krux, since Arthur has taken upon himself to begin introductions, I might as well continue with it. This is Lord John Richard Roxton," Challenger indicated the man with a wave of his hand. Roxton merely nodded and lifted his glass in an acknowledgement. "He's-"

"Lord Roxton's reputation is well known," she said quietly, in a tone that was neither generous nor overtly vicious. Roxton's cold stare in return to her remark was sufficient indication that he understood her subtle barb.

"And lastly, Edward Malone, he's a reporter"

"For the International Herald Tribune, yes I know," she nodded and shook Malone's extended hand.

"Oh, so you have met already?" Challenger asked curiously.

Ned was self consciously clearing his throat when Marguerite replied for the both of them. "I was interviewed once for a piece in the Society pages. Miss Vandergelt's wedding. Are you acquainted with the Vandergelts?" she asked Challenger in a horribly innocent voice. 

Of course he wouldn't be acquainted with the Vandergelts. The only one of them who could ever have had contact with such a family was Roxton, and he, despiser of debutantes, or so he said, probably wouldn't be caught dead in such a frivolous fanfare as that wedding was. She, in truth, had been there- and had walked away with a considerable amount of wealth that she had not arrived with. So terribly convenient, with everyone half drunk and barely knowing anyone else who was there. 

"Oh, yes, that's right," Malone stammered, underneath Marguerite's well meaning glare that seemed to echo her earlier threat of a libel suit if he brought up the affair of the Roxton jewels. 

Challenger looked at Malone with his brows drawn in, as if he were somehow calculating how his estimation of the lad should be affected by this new piece of information. From Marguerite's view, it seemed that it detracted from whatever previous status he enjoyed. 

"But I hadn't thought that you'd be qualified for an expedition such as this," Marguerite continued, grilling Malone. She asked him dozens of impertinent questions, everything from where he was during the war to the logistics of the air balloon that he claimed to know how to operate. 

During all this Challenger and Summerlee shot each other meaningful looks and blatantly listened to the conversation, Marguerite's comments becoming more and more catty as Malone began to lose his temper and speak in loud tones. 

Roxton sat and stared at the tableau before him, immovable. That bloody woman again! Just looking at her made his blood boil with rage. The bitch who had made a mockery of him and his mother, who had had the nerve to waltz into his men's club and generously provide funding for the hopeless expedition that was his ticket away from her and all of London's nonsense Would she never leave him be? It was bad enough that he saw her every time he closed his eyes, that those eyes of hers were bored into his soul and that even now, when he hated her so much, he still couldn't believe how stunning beautiful she looked, clad in red satin and nastily slinging insults at Malone.

"Madam, I believe you've questioned him enough. I've approved him for the mission and I'm sure you'll agree," Challenger said with a chuckle, "that he is properly capable of everything that needs to be done. Nothing to worry your pretty little head about," he continued patronizingly, patting her on the shoulder. "We men will go forth and return with stories that will make your heart swell with delight in an investment well-made." 

"Really? Well, you can save your stories for your wife, Professor, because I'm going with you," she said matter-of-factly.

"Madam, you cannot be serious! Into the middle of the jungle? What would your family say!" Summerlee exclaimed in horror.

"Oh, I'm quite serious. If you paid any attention to the travel plans, you'll notice everything is booked for five. And in answer to your question, Doctor, I haven't the faintest idea what my family would say, considering I have none," she said flatly, rising and walking over to the sidebar to refill her drink.

"What about your qualifications for the trip? What possible use could you have to us?" Malone interjected mockingly.

"More than you, I'm certain. I am proficient in several languages, some living, some dead, as well as more than a novice's study of geology," she said casually, as she filled her drink and turned again to face them. She left the drink on the bar and gently lifted an antique musket off the wall above it. She sized up Malone in its sights and noticed Roxton stiffen out of the side of her eye. "I can handle myself as well firearms. Don't you agree, Lord Roxton?"

"More of the latter than the former," he replied with a smirk.

Chuckling, she replaced the musket and took up her drink. "Well, boys, then I guess this is an ultimatum. If you can't stand to have a woman in your boys' club of an expedition, a woman, who has financed the entirety of this little mission, mind you! - then I suggest you sleep in tomorrow. Because I will be on the docks, ready to go, with you or without you."

All four men were astonished at her harsh tones and forceful orders. Finally Challenger broke the silence. "I suppose you leave us no choice."

"Don't look so gloomy, Challenger. You might be surprised what I can offer."

At this, Challenger and Summerlee politely excused themselves to a corner of the room and began yet another argument concerning the dating of prehistoric eras, while Malone acted as referee, asking questions just as their voices began to rise harshly.

Roxton saw this as a convenient time to confront the stubborn and conceited Miss Krux. "So you've invited yourself along."

"It was my expedition to begin with," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. "It still is."

"And I see you won't let anyone forget it. But how would they react if they knew where the money was coming from- Farcourt's necklace, Wainwright's pocket money"

"I had nothing to do with that," she replied coldly.

"Oh, I'm sure you didn't. Just as you had nothing to do with my mother's jewels."

"Still rankling over that?" she said, curling her lip to bare her teeth. "I heard a child did it."

"Don't try to play your games with me- I know you were the governess who came to the house," he hissed.

"Really, Lord Roxton, where ever do you get such absurd notions?" she said in a sweet tone, batting her eyelashes innocently.

"Why don't you tell me the real reason you're doing this? What's in it for you?"

"The joy in my heart of knowing I had a part in the advancement of the sciences," she intoned theatrically, pitching her voice so the others could hear, before moving away from him. 

"We are about to impart upon something historic, I think," Malone agreed, nodding at Marguerite.

"Some words of wisdom, perhaps, before we set off into the great unknown?" Marguerite suggested.

Summerlee began to say something but was quickly cut off by Challenger, who had flung his head back and hooked his fingers underneath his lapels, in preparation for what, no doubt, was a prepared speech.

"This journey will mark the start of a new era. No part of life will be untouched by what we shall discover in this lost plateau, everything, not just zoology-- history, geology, physics"

"I think we get the idea, George," said Roxton, realizing just how long this could take. He respected the man unlike any other, but god, was he longwinded!

"How about a toast then?" Summerlee suggested.

"To the Challenger Expedition," Roxton said, raising his glass and pointedly looking at Marguerite, whose mouth was half open in rebuttal.

Pursing her lips, she paused for a moment before she raised her glass as well. "To the Challenger Expedition."

"The Challenger Expedition!" the others chimed in and their glasses tinkled with light contact.

Roxton took a sip of his whiskey and looked at the motley crew. The green reporter, so hungry for a story that he was heading into something that was more than he could handle just to prove he was worth it. The stubborn old man whose pride in his work led him to uphold an assertion even with the threat of so dangerous and difficult a journey. The visionary to whom he was indebted, whose grand ideas were inspiring and lofty, even if they did seem all too unreal. And the mysterious woman that remained out of his grasp, dangerous, beautiful and cold.

"May it be the adventure of a lifetime."

FIN.

Please r/r.


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